


Inner Demons

by serendipity_50



Series: Starting Over Universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 482,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipity_50/pseuds/serendipity_50
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long-distance relationships are hard under normal circumstances, but Harry and Ginny don’t have the luxury of living normal lives. Their relationship is put to the test when Ginny returns to school and Harry stays behind to continue his Auror training. Ginny soon realizes her greatest challenge may be in coming to terms with Harry’s fame and dangerous line of work and deciding if she can make the sacrifices needed to be part of his life. Sequel to Starting Over. (COMPLETE)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read Starting Over, some things in this story might not make sense. This is NOT a traditional romance or "feel good" story. It's about Ginny battling demons left behind after a year under Death Eater rule at Hogwarts, her brother's death, and the trauma of being attacked by Greyback; she's not going to be very likable at times. The story does have a happy ending (and fits with canon), but gets quite dark in places and may have any number of triggers for people who've endured personal trauma. Please don't read if you're looking for fluff or PWP.
> 
> My undying gratitude goes to my marvelous betas, Ashwinder, whose probing (and often amusing) comments kept me on track, and Minisinoo, for her invaluable psychology/counseling expertise.
> 
> This story can also be found on my LJ at http://serendipity-50.livejournal.com/10353.html

**PROLOGUE:**

“Alohamora.”

The heavy metal bars swung inward with a clang. Aurors Jonathan Biggerstaff and Wendell Johnson walked in companionable silence down the passageway leading to the high security holding cells in the lowest levels of the Ministry of Magic.

“I hate these early morning trials,” Johnson growled.

“Yeah,” agreed Biggerstaff. “Especially after a late night. You’d think Potter would need to sleep at least a little, wouldn’t you?”

Johnson snorted. “I think that kid has Invigoration Draught instead of blood in his veins. I can’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep.”

“Well, I’d much rather be on his bodyguard detail than spending my time filing reports,” Biggerstaff said. “But, I hope the Headmistress changes her mind about letting him go to Hogwarts more than once a month. I could use the rest.”

Johnson hummed in agreement through his yawn.

“So who’s going to get the Weasley girl this morning?” Biggerstaff asked.

“Ingles. He’s bringing the Thomas kid, too.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot that he was involved. He was with her when she was taken, right?”

“Yeah. I feel sorry for her. What the press has done to her is almost as bad as what that beast did.”

“They’re going to be all over her today, for sure. It’ll be a bloody nightmare having to talk about it in front of everyone. I’m sure she’s not looking forward to seeing Greyback again.”

“No, but it’ll be worth it to see him sent to Azkaban, yeah?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait see how he holds up in there. I’ll bet the Dementors will tame him down right quick. After a few days, he’ll be wishing Robards hadn’t kept Potter from killing him.”

“He _has_ been a right royal pain in the arse, hasn’t he—making demands and threatening the guards. With the full moon last night, no one’s been near his cell since yesterday morning. They sent his meals in with a Levitation charm.”

“Well, that should make transporting him upstairs easier, if he’s worn out from a transformation.”

“I’m not sure it matters with that bastard,” Biggerstaff said. “He’s just not normal, even for a werewolf.”

They rounded the last corner and stopped some distance from the door of the cell.

“GREYBACK! Get away from the door and keep your hands where we can see them,” Biggerstaff yelled. He looked at Johnson “Ready?”

Johnson nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Wands drawn, they slowly approached the heavy metal door, watching for movement behind the small barred opening. Johnson tapped the latch and the door swung slowly inward. They gaped at the sight before them until Biggerstaff found his voice.

“Oh, bloody shite! Go get Robards. NOW!”


	2. Getting Back to Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finally finding their way back to each other at the end of the long miserable summer, Harry and Ginny adjust to being separated again.

Ginny’s lungs seized up and she struggled for air as she stared at the two photos on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

In one, Harry was kissing her goodbye at King’s Cross Station. Merlin, she hadn’t realized how passionate it had looked to everyone else. The memories the picture evoked should have had a calming effect. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the other picture, awakening memories that made her skin crawl and bile rise from her churning stomach. The paper rattled in her shaking hands. 

“Greyback’s dead?” Dean Thomas angrily punched his fist into his hand and swore viciously. “Hanging himself wasn't nearly what he deserved.”

_Greyback’s dead._

The words echoed hollowly in Ginny’s head. Stars blossomed before her eyes and her knees buckled. Dean caught her before she hit the floor. Helping her onto a nearby bench, he kept a supportive arm around her and stroked her shoulder soothingly as she fought to catch her breath.

With no warning, vivid memories demolished the carefully constructed protective barriers of her mind—once more she was in the cold stone cottage with the stench of vomit and blood and death. Terror flashed through her with violent shudders and cold sweat. Her throat constricted as if filthy claws were squeezing the life out of her. She dropped her head to her knees and pulled at her hair, struggling to fight off the flashback and remain conscious. Her muddled brain grasped vainly at the significance of the news.

 _He’s dead. Fenrir Greyback is dead_.

She sat up and forced her breathing into a slow, even rhythm. Dean watched her carefully, worry creasing his brow.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I’ll be okay.”

He dipped his head to look into her eyes. “It’s over. We don’t have to go now, you know. You don’t have to testify.”

She stared at him blankly, the words not registering for a moment. _It’s over… it’s over…_

Their meaning finally hit, nearly knocking her senseless with relief. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her middle, drawing in great gasps of air to quell the sudden wave of nausea and tears that threatened to engulf her. She would not break down. Not again. It was over. She refused to let it rule her life any more.

Anticipation of the trial had turned the relentless dread she’d been feeling since her encounter with Greyback into sheer panic. Today was the day. Or it would have been.

How could they possibly have expected her to get through it? She still couldn’t even discuss the details of the ordeal with her family. The prospect of facing the Wizengamot—and Greyback—had terrified her to the point she was barely functioning.

But now it was over. She didn’t have to testify. The knowledge pulled a plug that drained her completely of the strength she’d been hoarding for weeks to get through it. She felt so limp, she thought she might slide from the bench if Dean weren’t still holding onto her.

He tightened his grip. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take you to Madam Pomfrey?”

She opened her eyes and shook her head, but was interrupted before she could speak.

“Ah, Miss Weasley, Mr. Thomas. There you are.” Professor McGonagall was hurrying toward them from the entry hall. “I see you’ve got the news—Miss Weasley, are you all right?”

From the alarm on McGonagall’s face, Ginny could only imagine how she must look. “Yes, I just—I just need a moment.”

McGonagall frowned. “More than a moment, I would guess. I think a trip to the hospital wing is in order—”

Ginny sat up straight. “I’m fine, Professor.”

McGonagall’s frown of concern said clearly that she didn’t agree, but she cleared her throat and returned to her original topic. “I have spoken with two people through the Floo this morning. The first, as you have already guessed, was from the Ministry to let us know that you will not be needed to testify today. The second, Miss Weasley, was your sister-in-law.”

Ginny instantly tensed. Fleur would call for only one reason.

“In her capacity as publicist for Mr. Potter and your family, she has received a number of requests for interviews. She has asked that you—”

“No!” Ginny jumped to her feet. Though her legs threatened to fail her, she steadied herself and gave vent to her anger. “No! I won’t do it. They don’t care about what I have to say. They don’t care about the truth. They’re just going to make something up anyway. Look!” She pointed at the headline above the photographs:

**Greyback Death in Custody a Mystery.**

**Did Potter Pull Strings to Avenge Girlfriend?**

 

“How can they say that about Harry? They’re treating him like they did three years ago. He would never do something like that.”

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. “Yes, I see your point. But you should still speak with your sister-in-law—”

“I’ll send her an owl,” Ginny said quickly, not wanting to end up on her knees in front of McGonagall’s fireplace just yet. She just didn’t have it in her to argue with Fleur this morning.

“Yes, well, I suppose that will have to do,” McGonagall said with a look of disapproval. “However, I must insist that you go and see Madam Pomfrey. You’re still looking quite pale. Mr. Thomas, will you see that she does so?” At Dean’s nod, she gave Ginny a gentle pat on the shoulder and left.

“Come on,” Dean said as he grabbed Ginny’s arm so she couldn’t make a getaway. “Let’s go andget scolded by Madam Pomfrey.”

Ginny groaned and wrinkled her nose, but allowed him to lead her from the room.

***

Chattering groups of students were beginning to make their way down to breakfast as Ginny and Dean trudged up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. After two weeks back at school, everyone else seemed to have made a smooth transition back to normal life. Ginny longed to feel normal again.

As far as she could tell, the bad taste in her mouth was the only lasting effect of the Invigoration Draught Madam Pomfrey had forced on her. She had barely climbed one flight of stairs before the ever present emptiness and exhaustion had once more spun themselves about her like spider webs, clinging all the more as she struggled to be rid of them.

Not only had she been fighting the ghosts of Greyback these past weeks, but every trip through the castle stirred memories of the terrible things that had happened there the previous year when Death Eaters had been running the school. Students had been tortured and the resistance group that she, Neville, and Luna had led had gone into hiding in the Room of Requirement. In the end, the final battle had left the hallways and lawns littered with dead and injured bodies. Hogwarts and its occupants had nearly been destroyed. And now, even though the buildings and grounds had been repaired over the summer, erasing the evidence of the battle as if nothing had happened, no matter where Ginny went or what she did, flashbacks of the horrors overlaid scenes of normal life, leaving her disoriented and irritable.

She paused as they reached the seventh floor. Dean waited patiently—he’d watched this ritual many times before. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and braced herself against the wave of grief that always washed over her when she reached this point—the place where Fred had died.

She hadn’t been there when the explosion sent the wall tumbling down on him and no evidence of the damage remained, but she still felt a chill when she walked this stretch of hallway. She supposed, with nine of them fighting, her family had been lucky to lose only one in the war. But Fred had held a place all his own in their big, happy family. Not a day passed that she didn’t think of him and the void he’d left behind. Then her thoughts would inevitably turn to George who, it seemed, would never be more than just a shadow of himself without his twin. She’d spent the summer helping him work through his grief and hadn’t taken much time to properly tend to her own. It was catching up with her now.

She nearly ran the length of the hall to the Gryffindor portrait hole. With his long legs, Dean easily kept up. As they entered the common room, three second-years sitting at the table near the window looked up from their books. Ginny was surprised they didn’t hurt one another the way their heads zoomed together in a frenzied conference of undertones as she and Dean made their way across the room. Pretending to ignore them, she gave Dean a grateful look when he took her hand and gave it a squeeze of understanding.

“I think I’m going to lie down for a bit,” she said.

“I’ll tell the teachers. They weren’t expecting us today anyway.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Thanks... for everything. I’ll talk to you later.”

Climbing the steps to the dormitory seemed to take much longer than usual, and when she reached the door to her room, she wished she’d waited until her roommates had left for class. She stopped to listen as Lavender Brown read to Parvati Patil from the _Daily Prophet_.

_“…a full-scale investigation into the mysterious death of Fenrir Greyback, who was in a maximum security holding cell at the Ministry awaiting trial for the abduction and possible rape of Ginevra Weasley this summer. Unnamed Ministry sources say that it was impossible for Greyback to have brought in the rope he was found hanging from and they speculated that someone who wanted him dead had provided it along with an Imperius Curse. Of course, whether or not Greyback was under the influence of a curse at the time of his death is impossible to prove. In the opinion of this reporter, the most likely suspect is Harry Potter, who, following his dramatic rescue of Miss Weasley, denied any personal involvement with her. That denial was blatantly refuted on the platform of King’s Cross Station on 1 September, making revenge for the attack on Miss Weasley all the more believable as a motive for killing Greyback. Meanwhile, Hogwarts students report that Miss Weasley is temperamental and unpredictable in her behavior, wielding her Head Girl badge like a Bludger Bat…”_

Lavender abruptly stopped reading when she noticed Ginny standing in the doorway. Snatching the newspaper behind her back, she cast a nervous glance at Parvati, who had paused in fixing her hair. They scrambled to grab books and bags from their beds as Ginny continued into the room, her head held high.

“I hope you don’t believe all that rubbish about Harry,” Ginny said tersely.

Parvati muttered something unintelligible and tossed her hair.

Lavender got a hard look in her eyes. “Well, I’m glad Greyback’s dead, no matter who did it.”

Ginny looked at her in surprise, then nodded as she remembered that Lavender had been attacked by the werewolf during the battle last spring. Lack of mourning over Greyback was the one thing the two of them could certainly agree on.

“Come on, Lav,” Parvati said as she took a last look in the mirror. “We’re going to be late.”

Lavender gave Ginny a nervous look that was almost apologetic and hurried after Parvati. Ginny slammed the door behind them with a growl of frustration.

If things were normal, she wouldn’t even have roommates, much less two she didn’t get along with. As Head Girl, she should have a room of her own. But so many students had been unable to finish their seventh year because of the war, McGonagall had allowed them to come back this year to prepare for their N.E.W.T.s. That meant space was needed for additional beds. And because Ginny, Lavender, and Parvati had been close last year, McGonagall had put them all in the same room. The headmistress didn’t realize things had changed over the summer.

Being Head Girl wasn’t exactly what Ginny had expected, either. She thought she’d probably been chosen because of her leadership in the student resistance last year, but that was so different—it was exciting and the other students were eager to follow when she, Neville, and Luna had led them into the fray. Now, those same students just looked at her with disdain. Head Girl duties were so... so... boring. Organizing Prefect meetings, planning Hogsmeade weekend (delayed until mid-November this year because of the war reconstruction), and collecting nightly Prefect reports didn’t offer the same adrenaline rush as stealing swords and thwarting Death Eaters. Oh, Ginny knew she _could_ do it, she just didn’t _want_ to. If Mum wouldn’t kill her, she’d resign tomorrow. Parvati or Lavender or even Luna would be much better at it.

Flopping face first onto the bed, Ginny wrapped herself around her pillow (the one she’d nicked from Ron’s room that Harry had slept on summer before last). She drew deep, ragged breaths, trying desperately to keep her emotions in control. When was life going to be normal again? She would not cry. She’d spent the whole summer crying and she was _not_ going to cry again. She really just wanted to go home so she wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.

Even with everything that had happened, the hardest thing was this horrible feeling of isolation. She had grown up surrounded by a big, loving family, and had always been part of a large circle of friends at school. But the war and Greyback had changed everything. This year, for the first time in her life, she felt truly alone.

The newspaper article had said she was temperamental, but it didn’t take into account the reasons why—the whispered conversations that started or stopped when she entered a room, the hateful glares from people she didn’t even know, the copies of malicious articles and photos left lying around so she would see them. Sometimes, people would be especially nice to her, then criticize anything she said behind her back. Others would be especially mean because of something they had read that usually wasn’t even true.

Running the gauntlet of reporters and photographers after her release from St. Mungo’s had been Ginny’s first encounter with the press, and their wild speculations that she was carrying Greyback’s child had been almost as traumatizing as her abduction.

Since that experience, Ginny’s world had shrunk. She had managed to avoid the press by staying where the protective enchantments meant they couldn’t get to her—home, the shop where she worked with George and Ron, and Hogwarts. The only other brush she’d had with the media had been at King’s Cross when she had talked Harry into kissing her goodbye. He’d warned her about the resulting chaos—and she hated to admit that he’d been right. Between her associations with Greyback and Harry, her picture or a story with her name had appeared in one or more Wizarding publications every day for the past month—and most of the articles were based on rumor or speculation or outright lies.

She was the youngest of seven children and the only girl in seven generations, so being the center of attention was nothing new—she’d always rather enjoyed it. But this was different. The incessant scrutiny and judgment was hostile and petty and she was tired of it.

Turning over, she stared into the canopy over her head. How had Harry grown up like this? Every day she had a greater appreciation of what it had been like for him—and why he was so distrustful of people, even when they genuinely cared for him.

Between dealing with the unwanted attention, battling the leftover terrors from her abduction, and struggling with her grief over Fred, Ginny wondered if she wasn’t going mad. Some days, depression sat heavily on her like a wet cloak, rendering her brain and body sluggish. Other days, she was snappish and surly, holding even her friends at arm’s length. Though she worked hard at keeping her attitude and emotions under control, she often found it impossible. Reining in her gregarious, trusting nature was hard work, and she was exhausted from having to constantly keep up her guard and analyze other people’s motives.

She wasn’t completely friendless—she knew she could count on Luna, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. But Luna was in Ravenclaw. And the boys were… well, boys. She couldn’t really confide in any of them.

Ginny missed Lavender and Parvati, but she couldn’t trust them anymore. They tended to believe all the rubbish they read in the newspapers and magazines, and had been among the first and worst to gossip. They’d called her “damaged goods” at her own birthday party. Unfortunately for them, Harry had heard. Furious, he’d made them leave the party. They were terrified of him even now—and with good reason.

That was why the three of them rooming together was so awkward. The other girls apparently didn’t dare say or do anything that might bring about Harry’s wrath, so they were unnaturally polite and found other places to be if Ginny chose to study or spend her free time in the room.

Of course, Harry was the other reason everyone was paying her so much attention. He was a celebrity, the closest thing to royalty the Wizarding world had. And he’d told her he loved her.

She clung to the thought. It was her touchstone, the thing that kept her from going completely insane.

But it still didn’t seem real. After the long summer of misunderstandings, she’d begun to think they would never get back together. But once they did, she had wanted the world to know that Harry was hers—especially the females who regularly threw themselves at him. So now she was paying the price for their public farewell.

Sighing, she wrapped herself more tightly around his pillow. It wasn’t fair that they’d had so little time together—just hours, really—before she had to leave for school. She hadn’t seen him in two weeks and her longing for him had become almost a physical ache. He was in Auror training and couldn’t come often anyway, but even more unfair was McGonagall limiting him to one weekend visit a month. Of course, they owled each other nearly every day, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to see him, to touch him…

Her eyes were growing heavy and the darkness was seeping into her brain. She was bone weary from weeks of sleepless nights. Just a few more days… Harry would be here in just a few more days and her world would be back to normal for a little while.

***

“Mr. Potter!”

Harry jerked to attention and quickly covered the series of curly G’s he’d been doodling on his parchment. “Sir?”

“Are you planning to join us any time soon?”

Harry grimaced, feeling the blood heat his face. The teacher was glaring at him and his classmates were snickering. If Head Auror Gawain Robards hadn’t been almost as wide as he was tall and bald as one of Trelawney’s crystal balls, Harry would’ve thought he’d taken a Time Turner back to Snape’s Potions class. It would’ve been appropriate. In his mind, he was already at Hogwarts, cloistered in an empty classroom with Ginny. He hadn’t seen her in seventeen days. The last place he wanted to be right now was listening to an Auror training lecture.

“Sorry, sir.”

Robards snorted. “You will be if you don't pay attention. Would you care to answer the question?”

Harry fidgeted nervously. “Um… could you repeat it?” His classmates laughed quietly.

Robards cocked an eyebrow at him. “I asked how many of you have had an Unforgivable cast at you?”

Harry grimaced. Everyone knew his answer to that question. “You know I have.”

“Which ones?”

Harry scowled at Robards—he should know the answer to that one, too. “All of them.”

Robards nodded. “Right. Other than the time you survived the killing curse—”

“Two times,” Harry said, then bit his tongue, wishing he could snatch the words back. With his mind only halfway back from Hogwarts, he had spoken without thinking. He hadn’t told anyone except Ron and Hermione about what had really happened during his confrontation with Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest before the battle in the Great Hall.

“Two times? You survived the killing curse twice? I thought you repelled it during the final battle.”

Harry studied his thumbnail carefully and shrugged. “There was another time,” he mumbled.

“Care to tell us about it?”

“No.”

Robards crossed his arms and studied Harry a moment before apparently deciding to let the matter go. “So, are you still impervious to the _Avada Kedavra_?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry mumbled.

“You don’t _think_ so? Why not?”

Harry fidgeted again. “I—I just don’t. At any rate, I don’t want to try it to find out.”

The class chuckled and Harry had to work to keep the smirk off of his face.

“Okay,” Robards said as he paced the front of the room. “How many times have you been hit with the _Cruciatus_?”

“Enough to know I don’t want to try that one again, either,” Harry answered quickly.

The class laughed out loud and Harry couldn’t keep from smiling this time.

Robards cleared his throat and everyone sobered immediately. “What about _Imperio_?”

“A couple of times,” Harry answered. “But it’s been awhile.”

“When?”

“Fourth year at Hogwarts.”

“Were you able to fight it?”

“Yes.”

Robards stopped pacing and gave him a serious look. “You fought off the _Imperius_ Curse at age—what—fourteen?”

Harry shifted in his seat and nodded.

Robards looked around at the other students. “At fourteen. I don’t want any excuses from the rest of you.”

The class squirmed under his scrutiny. He looked back at Harry. “Who cast it?”

Harry fidgeted again. “Barty Crouch Jr. when he was impersonating Moody, and then…” he finished in a barely audible voice, “…Voldemort.”

Those nearest him gasped.

“You fought off an Imperius Cursecast by You-Know-Who? At fourteen?” someone behind him asked and the murmuring spread throughout the room.

“Yeah. _Voldemort_.” Harry said, emphasizing the name with a note of irritation in his voice. This line of questioning was getting old fast. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes left.

Robards looked around the room. “Anyone else ever fought off an Imperius Curse?”

No hands went up.

“Anyone ever cast it?”

Harry raised his hand. The other students fidgeted in their seats.

Robards grunted. “Come on. No one’s going to Azkaban. We’ve been at war. I know someone in this room besides Potter has cast an Unforgiveable.”

After a couple of moments, two more hands went up. Harry groaned inwardly—one of them belonged to Daphne Darling.

“Darling. Potter. Get up here. Let’s have a demonstration.”

Harry dragged himself reluctantly from his seat and stood nervously before the class. He hoped Robards would let him cast the curse and Daphne try to fight it, but he had a feeling…

Daphne Darling was a buxom blonde beauty who had been aggressively pursuing Harry since they’d entered Auror training together. She liked the idea of dating a celebrity, and, for a while, Harry had gone along with the ruse when he was trying to keep the media (and Ginny) from realizing where his heart really belonged. Now that his relationship with Ginny was public, Daphne had been quite brazen in her attempts to use the press as a means to break them up. “Constant vigilance” had become his watchword to keep from getting caught in a photo that he would have to explain to Ginny and her family.

The wicked gleam in Daphne’s eye right now made him cringe. She was a powerful witch and it had been a long time since he’d fought the curse. This was not good.

“All right, Potter. Show us how to fight off the Imperius Curse.”

Harry gritted his teeth, threw back his shoulders, and drew a deep breath. Daphne pointed her wand at him. As the spell hit, all of his worries drained away and his mind floated off on a wave of euphoria. He could hear Daphne’s voice in a distant corner of his brain: _Kiss me, Harry. Come on, snog me senseless._

Harry took a step forward, then stopped as another voice in his head warned, _Ginny won’t like it._

Daphne persisted. _Come on, Harry, give me a kiss. You know you want to._

Harry took another step. _No, you don’t,_ said the other voice. He stopped just in front of her.

_Harry, kiss me. NOW!_

Harry put his hands on Daphne’s shoulders and looked down at her upturned face.

_That’s right, keep going…_

The other voice in his head shouted— _NO!_

“No!” Harry echoed. “No, I’m not going to do it.” Breathing heavily and moving as if he was pulling against a magnetic force, he lowered his arms and took a step back.

“Good work, Potter!” Robards motioned for Daphne to break the spell.

She pouted prettily and flicked her wand. Harry stumbled backwards, regaining his sense of reality. He heaved a sigh of relief.

“What were you trying to get him to do, Miss Darling?”

Daphne smirked as Harry's face flamed. “Kiss me, of course.”

The class roared with laughter. “I’ll volunteer for the next demonstration,” said a male voice over the chaos.

Harry looked over the laughing group as he sank back into his seat. Only seven had made it through the admission process, but since this was the largest class in recent history, Harry was still convinced they had lowered the standards a bit to rebuild the ranks after the war. Not that any of the trainees were undeserving. Daphne had attended Hogwarts as a Ravenclaw until her fourth year, but transferred to Beauxbatons right after the Triwizard Tournament. Ernie McMillan and Mandy Brocklehurst had both been in Harry’s year at Hogwarts, too, but in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Scott Summers, a classmate and Hufflepuff housemate of Cedric Diggory’s, had begun his training before the war, but once Voldemort began making open attacks, all classes had been suspended so the Auror trainers could join the fight; Scott had had to start again on his training. The two remaining trainees, John Dawson and Roberta Marks, were transfers from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. They were a bit older than the rest of the group, but had seen plenty of action during the war and decided to make the change while they could.

“That’s enough.” Robards’ stern voice brought them back to order, but Harry saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Summers, tell me the strategic advantage to being able to fight the Imperius Curse.”

“Well, if the person casting it doesn’t know you can fight it, you can pretend to do their bidding while you gather more evidence or get into a better position to capture or defeat them.”

The clock in the corner chimed six and the trainees began gathering their things, groaning in chorus at Robards’ parting shot.

“Two foot essay on the Imperius Curse for Monday. Do your research! Focus on how to fight it and strategic uses for doing so. Potter, a word before you go.”

Harry slumped back into his chair. He knew what was coming. As the room emptied, he tried desperately to come up with a plausible reason to offer so he wouldn’t have to admit the truth—he was pretty sure Robards would blast him for it. Of course, Robards had been riding him pretty hard since the Greyback incident. Harry had disobeyed a direct order not to go rescue Ginny on his own, and he was pretty sure Robards didn’t think that several weeks of pushing paper was adequate discipline. Now that the press was implicating him in Greyback’s death, Harry had a feeling the Head Auror was going to be keeping an even closer eye on him.

“Well?” Robards was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, looking decidedly irritated. “Thought up an excuse yet?”

Harry wondered sometimes if Robards was a Legilimens. He decided to just get it over with so maybe he could leave sooner.

“No.”

Robards cocked an eyebrow.

“Sir,” Harry added.

Robards leaned forward, forearms on the desk, and pinned Harry with an intense stare. “Potter, do you know why people expect more out of you?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Because of the prophecy…”

“Bollocks!” Harry jumped as Robards pounded the desk. “People don’t expect more out of you because some nutter went into a trance before you were born. They expect more because you’re _capable_ of more! You have more potential than anyone in this class. Hell, you’ve got more potential than any Auror in the division. You’ve proved that over and over since you were eleven. But if you don’t get your arse in gear and prove it in my classroom, you’re going to find yourself stocking shelves at Weasleys’. Do I make myself clear?”

Harry glowered, though he knew Robards was right. “Yes… sir.”

“All right, then. Now get your arse up to Hogwarts and get it out of your system. Then get in here Monday ready to work.”

Heat flashed to the roots of Harry's hair as he realized that Robards knew where his mind had been for the past three weeks. Of course, it wouldn’t take much detective work to figure it out after everything that had been in the press, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the Head Auror would pay attention to such things. He made a mental note to be more cautious.

When Harry finally pushed his way into the hall, he was surprised to find Scott Summers and Ernie McMillan waiting for him.

“Hey, Potter,” Summers said, flinging his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “You need a drink after Robards's arse-kicking. Let’s go and blow off some steam at the Leaky.”

“Sorry. Can’t. I’m meeting Ron and Hermione for dinner.” Harry was glad to have an excuse. The last place he wanted to go was the Leaky Cauldron, favorite hangout of the Wizarding press. “But thanks for asking.”

“Please come, Harry,” Ernie said. “You don’t have to stay long. We want to talk to you about fighting the Imperius Curse.”

“Yeah, we want to get you drunk so we can learn _all_ your dirty little secrets,” Scott said, wiggling his eyebrows wickedly and punching Harry in the arm. “I can’t for the life of me work out why you bothered to fight that curse today.”

“Let’s just say I value my life,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Ah, yes. The Girlfriend.” Scott nodded knowingly. “But how would she know?”

Harry sighed. “She’d know.” He didn’t add that Daphne would make sure of it.

“So, you’ll come?” Ernie asked. Harry realized they had steered him to the Atrium Floos.

“I really can’t…”

Summers looked highly offended. “What’s the matter, Potter? Afraid the press will catch you out with a couple of ’Puffs? We’re not good enough for you?”

“No, it’s not that…”

“Well, then, let’s go.” Summers pitched in the Floo powder and pushed Harry into the flame before he had a chance to protest. He landed awkwardly in the main room of the Leaky Cauldron and barely managed to scramble out of the way before the others came through behind him.

Harry realized they weren’t going to let him get away easily. “All right, but just one,” he said, thinking it would be the quickest way to be done with them.

“There’s a good bloke,” Summers said, slapping Harry on the back.

As they wound their way through the tables to the back of the room, Harry furtively checked out the other patrons, partly because his Auror training was kicking in, but more in the interest of self-preservation. In the months since he’d defeated Voldemort, he’d learned that being aware of his surroundings was his best defense against the press and overzealous fans. The bar was fairly empty with only two characters he thought worth watching: a hooded figure in a green cloak sitting at a table in the shadows near the front door, and a bloke at a table near the back entrance who was watching their progress with interest.

Harry, Scott, and Ernie had just got settled with their drinks when the back door opened and Harry thought about bolting for the front door. Daphne and Mandy, carrying bags from Madam Malkins’s, spotted them almost immediately and made a beeline for their table.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Daphne purred as she dropped into the chair next to Harry. “May we join you?”

Ernie jumped up to offer his chair to Mandy and grabbed another from the next table. Harry noticed the man at the back door leaning sideways in his chair, moving slowly, as if he didn’t want to call attention to himself. Wary of the movement, Harry quietly drew his wand as he listened to the others chatter about their latest lesson.

“So, how do you do it, Harry?” Harry dragged his attention to Ernie. “Is there some special trick?”

“Not really,” Harry said, watching the suspicious character over Ernie’s shoulder. “You just listen to the other voice in your head.”

“Other voice?” Scott asked. “What other voice?”

“You know how when you’re under the spell you can hear the caster’s voice in your head telling you what to do?” Harry asked. Scott nodded. “Well, if you listen, you can also hear another voice—I don’t know… like your conscience or something. It’ll be talking to you, too. You just try to listen to that voice more than the caster’s voice.”

“Show me,” Scott said. “Cast it on me now.”

“No thanks. It’s one thing to cast an Unforgivable in a training classroom. I’m not risking Azkaban by doing it here.”

Everyone laughed and Harry took the opportunity to check out his friends by the doors. The cloaked figure hadn’t moved. The man by the back door was sitting up straight again, being very still, just watching them. Harry tightened his grip on his wand.

“Well, I still don’t know why you bothered to fight it today,” Scott said, sending a blinding smile at Daphne. “Darling, you can practice on me anytime. _I_ won’t fight you.”

“Ooo, do you promise?” She shot him a wicked grin. “Most likely I’d tell _you_ to jump off the roof.” She turned to Harry and laid her hand on his arm. “Harry…”

Before she could finish, Harry pointed his wand across the room. Everyone in the pub turned in surprise as the man by the back door went rigid and toppled to the floor, smashing his camera as he landed on it.

“That gets really old,” Harry said, pocketing his wand and giving Daphne a scowl.

“What?” she asked with an innocent expression that quickly turned to a pout. “Harry, I’m hurt that you think I would put him up to that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Harry said, letting his tone say otherwise. He looked at Scott and Ernie who were whooping with laughter. “You’ll take care of him when I’m gone?”

“Of course, Potter,” Scott said through his chuckles. “I knew you didn’t want to be photographed with a couple of ’Puffs. I just didn’t realize how far you’d go to prevent it.”

“See you Monday,” Harry said with a wave and headed for the front door. The cloaked figure was gone.

***

“Ginny, wait!”

Ginny stopped with one foot out the entrance hall door on the way to Quidditch practice and drew a deep breath before turning to watch Romilda Vane float down the stairs. Sometimes the hardest part about being Head Girl was having to be available to every student—she could barely force herself to be civil to this girl. Romilda was an obnoxiously self-confident sixth-year who had given Harry some love-potion-laced chocolates two years earlier. Ron had eaten them by mistake, leading to a series of unfortunate events that nearly killed him. Now, Romilda was president of the Hogwarts Chapter of the Harry Potter Fan Club.

Ginny pasted on a bland expression and waited until Romilda stood breathlessly before her.

“Ginny, is it true? Is Harry coming tomorrow?”

Ginny nodded warily, wondering where Romilda had got her information.

Romilda’s smile could’ve lit the Great Hall on a gloomy day. She clapped her hands together and nearly danced. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

Ginny cocked her head and considered the girl. “Yes, it is. But I don’t see why _you’re_ so excited.”

Romilda stopped and gaped at Ginny. “Well, I—er—I mean _we_ —everybody—just loves him so much. It’ll mean so much that he’s coming to visit Hogwarts. You know, raise everyone’s spirits and all.”

Ginny gritted her teeth. She’d waited three weeks to see him. She’d be damned if she was going to share him with anyone, especially Romilda. Drawing a deep breath, she tried very hard to make her tone polite “This isn’t an official visit, Romilda. He’s not coming to visit _Hogwarts_. He’s coming to visit _me_.”

“Oh—oh, well—of course.” Romilda’s tone was conciliatory, but the glint in her eye made Ginny uncomfortable. “Yes, I guess he’ll spend most of his time with you, but surely he’ll take time to talk to the rest of us, you know, sign autographs and stuff.”

Ginny was growing impatient. She sighed heavily and struggled to keep her voice calm. “Harry doesn’t give autographs, but I don’t imagine he’ll be rude to anyone. Harry’s visit tomorrow is personal. He needs time to relax. It’ll probably be okay if you speak to him, but please don’t get any ideas about—”

“Right. No fanfare. Keep it simple,” Romilda interrupted with a smile as she backed toward the stairs. “Thanks, Ginny.” She turned and ran back the way she’d come, then paused as she reached the first step and looked back over her shoulder with a smile that didn’t quite seem friendly. “I have a great potion that’ll help with those dark circles under your eyes. Come and see me after practice.”

Ginny turned on her heel without answering and went through the door muttering to herself. “Bloody stupid fan club. I swear I’ll ask McGonagall to dock points if she gets out of line, even if it is my own house…”

She had left the dormitory early so she would have some time to fly a bit before Quidditch practice—a chance to blow the bad thoughts and feelings from her mind so she could relax and focus on training. Romilda’s interruption had made her almost late, so by the time she reached the pitch, Ginny had worked up quite a head of steam.

Dean was just beginning his pre-practice meeting when she stepped into the changing room. As quietly as possible, she slipped onto a bench near the door and concentrated on calming herself while the finer details of Quidditch strategy washed over her. By the time Dean released everyone to head to the pitch, her breathing was back to normal and she thought she could hold a civil conversation. All she needed to finish the transformation was to get into the air and feel the wind in her face. Eager to leave the ground, she was the first one from the room, but she stopped with a growl of frustration when she heard Dean call her name.

He caught up and waited until everyone had passed. “Ginny, I’m going to give Dennis Creevey a shot at Seeker, but I need you to work with him while I run practice with the rest of the team.”

She groaned. “No, Dean, please. I really, really need to—”

“Ginny, please. This is important if you don’t want to end up playing Seeker. You know the first match is early this year. We’ve only got a month to get ready for Slytherin. They might have an inexperienced team, but we’ve got to start training a Seeker now to be ready for Hufflepuff after the holidays.”

She closed her eyes and drew a calming breath. She didn’t need to take her frustrations out on him, and besides, she had a favor to ask him after practice. She opened her eyes. “All right. What do I need to do?”

He smiled and looked relieved. “The kid’s got good eyes and a quick hand. He’s just too tentative on a broom. See what you can do to build his confidence. You’re our best flier. Teach him everything you know.”

She sighed and gave him a feeble smile. “I’ll try.”

“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She watched wistfully for a moment as her teammates mounted their brooms and took off.

Ginny was born to fly. Oh, she’d never be as good as Harry—she didn’t know anyone who could be—but she could out-fly any of her brothers, except maybe Charlie, and she thought she was getting close to giving him a run for his money. She was fearless on a broom, totally giving her body and mind over to the thrill of soaring like a bird, weightless and free.

That’s why she preferred Chasing to Seeking. Playing Seeker was a lonely waiting game—biding time, dodging Bludgers, looking for the glint of gold before the final hair-raising race for the prize. Chasing, on the other hand, was exhilarating, a team dance of constant motion and strategy—weaving, diving, passing and catching, then out-maneuvering the Keeper to send the Quaffle through the goal.

She _really_ needed to fly today.

Ginny swallowed her disappointment and fixed her face into an encouraging smile as she followed Dean onto the pitch.

Tentative was a very polite way to describe Dennis Creevey’s flying skills. He was terrible. The only reason Dean was giving him a chance at Seeker was because no one else had tried out for the position and they had to have someone. Ginny started out with a few of the basic moves essential to a Seeker’s repertoire—diving, rolling, spinning. But after he fell off his broom the third time, she decided she had to keep the lessons closer to the ground. It wasn’t that Dennis was scared of flying—he was perfectly willing to try anything she asked—but being a Muggle-born who lived in a Muggle neighborhood, he’d never had much chance to practice beyond the basics taught in Madam Hooch’s first-year class. And, without a broom of his own, he was using one of the worn-out school brooms.

By the time practice was over, Ginny was having a hard time being optimistic about Creevey’s chances for improvement and barely managed not to take her frustration out on him, even though she could tell he really was trying. She sent him off to the changing room and turned toward the pitch, determined to spend some time in the air before going in.

“Ginny—” Dean called to her as he came across the pitch.

“What?!” It came out more harshly than she intended and she bit her tongue to keep from letting her irritation take over.

“How did it go?”

She made a conscious effort to calm her voice. “He needs a lot of work. I think he’ll be okay eventually, but I don’t know if we’ll make it in time for the game.”

Dean shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. I had hoped…”

“Yeah, me too,” she said morosely, jabbing her toe into the ground. She looked up at him hopefully. “You said you’d make it up to me. Did you mean it?”

He eyed her warily. “Yeah…”

“I need to skive off practice this weekend.”

“What?” He threw his arms up in the air in frustration. “Ginny, not now! You just said—”

“I know what I just said, but Harry’s coming. I haven’t seen him in almost three weeks and I want to spend all of my time with him. McGonagall will only let him come once a month.” She turned on her best charming smile. “Please, Dean. I _really_ need this. I’ll play better if I’m relaxed, and I promise I’ll work with Creevey an extra hour every night next week.”

Dean looked off down the pitch, his jaw muscle flexing, apparently considering his options. Though the two of them were good friends, Ginny knew that he’d like for it to be more. She wondered if he was more reluctant to let her skip practice or to spend time with Harry.

“All right,” he finally said halfheartedly. “But let’s try to get Creevey up to speed as soon as possible. We’ve at least got to get him flying well enough to cover your spot at Chaser, even if he doesn’t do anything but run interference.”

Ginny flashed him a smile and threw her arms around his neck in a brief hug. “Thanks, Dean. I will.”

***

“Have they found out anything more about Greyback’s death?” Hermione asked, spooning the last bite of crème brûlée from her dish.

Harry shook his head as he finished off his treacle tart. “No, the investigation hasn’t turned up anything yet. No one really believes he offed himself on his own, so that means it had to be someone inside who got to him. They just don’t have any clues yet.”

“They don’t really think you had anything to do with it, do they?” asked Ron as he wiped his mouth and leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach.

“I don’t think so, but they had to ask me about it anyway. That story in the _Prophet_ raised a lot of questions, but I didn’t even know they’d moved him yet.” Harry felt his emotions begin to boil, the way they always did when he thought of what that beast had done to Ginny. His voice took on a menacing tone. “Besides, I don’t think suicide was good enough for him. If I was going to do something to him, he’d have suffered a lot more than he did.”

“I’m with you, mate,” Ron said grimly.

“Harry! Ron! Be careful,” Hermione hissed. “Anyone could be listening and you’re both excellent suspects.”

“Hermione, we’re in a private dining room in a Muggle restaurant. Who’s going to hear us?” Ron said.

“Ron—”

“Time to go,” Harry said as he flagged the waiter to settle their bill and stave off the threatened bout of bickering.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter. We hope to see you again soon,” the headwaiter said as they left. Rules, an upscale restaurant near the Thames, had become Harry’s favorite. The oldest restaurant in London, it served traditional British food in warm, historical surroundings. The discreet wait staff went out of their way to take care of him, and he made sure they knew he appreciated it—especially because they had never heard of him beyond the restaurant walls.

As the trio made their way through the door and began to stroll down the pavement toward the river, Hermione wrapped her arm through Harry’s and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, Harry. That was a lovely dinner.”

“Yeah, thanks, mate,” Ron added, taking Hermione’s other hand. “Bloody brilliant idea to come to a Muggle restaurant. Nice to be able to eat without everyone in the place watching me chew.”

Hermione giggled. “Yes, that was nice, too. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Harry said. “I thought it would have to do since I’m going to miss your birthday dinner tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said. “It was a wonderful birthday present to have just the three of us tonight. It’s been too long since we’ve had a chance to be together like this. Besides, there’ll be a full house at the Burrow. Not that we won’t miss you, of course, but I think Ginny really needs to see you. I wouldn’t dream of trying to keep you from going to Hogwarts this weekend.”

Harry laughed and looked out over the river. “I need to see her, too. It’s been nearly three weeks and even Robards has started to notice.”

“Robards? Why would he notice? Or even care?” Ron asked.

Harry told them about his afternoon, including the close calls with Daphne.

Hermione snorted. “Honestly! I don’t know why they let her stay in the program. She’s nothing but a troublemaker. She can’t possibly be real Auror material. I wonder who she charmed to let her in—and I don’t mean in a magical way.”

“Daphne’s actually quite good,” Harry said. “She’s going to make an excellent Auror when she’s done with training. And I’m sure her, er—skills—could be quite useful in certain undercover situations.”

Ron gave a whoop of laughter and flashed Harry a wicked grin. “Did you really mean to say what you just said?”

“Ron!” Hermione slapped him on the arm.

Harry was puzzled for a moment, then, as his comment clicked, he winked at Ron behind Hermione’s back. “I didn’t intend it that way, but…”

“Harry!” Hermione punched him on the shoulder. “Really, you two! I don’t like the girl, but there’s no need to be crude.”

“But, Hermione—” Ron had that tone in his voice that always preceded one of their squabbles, “You just said you thought she charmed someone in a non-magical way to get into the program. How is that any different than what Harry said?”

Harry gave a mock groan, “Ron, don’t…”

“You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant, Ron Weasley…”

And they were off. Harry chuckled to himself, only half listening to their banter as they strolled down the lane beside the river. The night was cool, but not unpleasant, and the water lapped peacefully at its banks. Harry had enjoyed the evening talking about mundane things with his two best friends, just like old times—just like normal. He loved normal. Normal was something he’d wanted all his life, although he realized _his_ normal would never be the same as for the rest of the Wizarding world. As an Auror, he would always have to contend with dark wizards. And as the one who defeated Voldemort, he supposed he would always have to deal with those who wanted to take advantage of his fame for their own purposes. But tonight his world seemed normal even by normal standards, and he wanted to make it last as long as possible. The only thing that would turn normal into perfect would be to have Ginny here with them.

“…you know, I think she’s really homesick. Don’t you, Harry?”

Harry snapped from his musings at Hermione’s question. “Why would Daphne be homesick?”

“Where have you been? That conversation ended five minutes ago. I’m talking about Ginny. I’m really worried about her. I don’t think things are going well at school this year.”

Harry frowned. “Why? Did she say something? She didn’t say anything in her letters to me.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Mmmm. Well, she wouldn’t, I don’t suppose. She wouldn’t want to worry you or…” She stopped and Harry wondered what she wasn’t saying. “Well, just pay attention when you see her this weekend. She might not say anything, but I think something’s bothering her and you need to see if you can find out what it is so we can help.”

“Probably nothing a good snog session won’t cure,” said Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it?”

Ron grinned smugly. “Well, it usually works, doesn’t it?”

Harry had to smile as Hermione blushed deeply enough to see even in the dim lights over the walkway.

“IT’S THEM! IT’S THEM!”

At the sudden scream, Harry had drawn his wand and stepped in front of Ron and Hermione before they could even react.

“Harry, not here,” Hermione whispered. “We’re in Muggle London.”

He lowered his arm, but didn’t loosen his grip until he realized the source of the sound was two girls about his age who were rushing toward them.

“It’s you! Harry Potter! It’s really you!” one of the girls gushed as the other one dug frantically through her rucksack. “And Hermione Granger! And Ron Weasley, too! It’s really you!”

“Uh, yeah. It’s us,” Harry said reluctantly, still holding his wand at his side and warily eyeing the girl with the sack.

When she finally finished her search and pulled a magazine from her bag, Harry groaned as he realized what it was.

“Mr. Potter, would you please autograph my copy of _Witch Weekly_?” she pleaded, holding out the obviously well read magazine and a Muggle pen.

Harry cringed at his image on the cover—recipient of this year’s “Most Winning Smile” award. He wasn’t fond of awards anyway, but of all the things he’d done in his life, Harry thought smiling was the least worthy of an award. Given the chance, he’d burn every copy of the magazine.

He shook his head and said gently, “No, I’m really sorry, but I don’t give autographs. Sorry.”

The girl looked momentarily defeated, then turned hopefully to Hermione and held out the book. “Miss Granger?”

Hermione smiled kindly and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry…”

“Oh, give it here,” Ron said in exasperation. “I’ll sign it.”

The girl’s face lit up and she opened the book to the page showing Ron pictured among the runners-up. Ron rested it on a nearby ledge, signed it with great flair, flipped it closed, and handed it back.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” the girl said, clutching the magazine to her chest as she and her friend backed away. They turned and took off running down the pavement.

When they were gone, Hermione cocked an eyebrow at Ron. “Since when did you get to be so generous with the autographs?”

“Oh, I get that all the time in the shop,” Ron said, waving nonchalantly as he grabbed her hand and began strolling down the sidewalk again. “I just signed it the way I always do.”

“The way you always do.” She gave him a skeptical look. “And what way is that?”

Ron waved his hand across the sky, as if reading from the stars. “Best wishes to my favorite fan. Love and kisses, Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Harry and Hermione stopped and gaped at him in stunned silence for a long moment before bursting into uncontrollable peals of laughter. Hermione was soon wiping tears from her face and Harry was holding his sides and gasping for breath. Ron leaned against the railing and watched them with an amused grin.

“I know he’s the reason why you won’t give autographs, Harry,” Ron said after they had pulled themselves together enough to continue walking. “But giving autographs was like—I don’t know—almost like breathing to him. And, after all, it was _my_ broken wand that put him in St. Mungo’s mental ward. So it just seems right for me to help the bloke out a bit.”

That set Harry and Hermione off again. And that’s how the photographer caught them—walking arm-in-arm, with Hermione in the middle, laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Harry was in such a good mood, he didn’t even mind.


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High emotions, raging hormones, and bad memories get Harry's visit to Hogwarts off to an interesting start.

Ginny stared again at the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ and mentally kicked herself for even looking at it the first time, much less brooding over it. But after Romilda had made such a production of presenting it...

“Oh, Ginny. I’m so sorry. Does this mean Harry won’t be coming?”

...Ginny couldn’t seem to keep her eyes from the page. Why would they print something like that? It wasn’t news, just fodder for the rumor mill.

Her insecurities rose like a Basilisk and she cringed. She shouldn’t be feeling like this now—not when she had stacks of letters from him in her trunk that should’ve banished those feelings forever. How could she even begin to doubt? But there they were in black and white, arm in arm, laughing their heads off...without Ron.

_The Boy Who Lived looked to be enjoying himself with “best friend” Hermione Granger (fiancée of his “best mate” Ron Weasley) in Muggle London last evening. Could friendship be turning into something more?_

With a growl, Ginny threw the paper on the table. Harry would have a perfectly reasonable explanation. She’d just ask him.

She tipped back the last of her pumpkin juice as the owls descended with the morning post. Pig hovered excitedly while she slipped Hermione’s letter from his leg and the Weasleys’s new owl, Homer (poor Erroll had finally flown permanently into the sunset), dropped off a letter from her Mum. Ginny put the letters in her pocket and was turning to get up from the table when an unfamiliar owl dropped a familiar square envelope into her lap. She stared at it with dread.

She had received a great deal of mail (positive and negative) following the media blitz of her farewell kiss with Harry and earlier this week after Greyback’s death. Fleur had come to collect and deal with most of it and the flow had trickled down and nearly stopped again… except for these letters. They had started three days after she’d got back to school—she’d received a dozen so far, and this one made five just this week. They weren’t quite threats, but they were beginning to worry her just the same. At first, she’d ignored them as part of the negative reaction to The Kiss. But they were coming more frequently now and she wasn’t able to put them out of her mind.

With shaking hands, she popped the seal. A second copy of the Prophet picture was folded in with it—the letters usually contained at least one picture of Harry with one witch or another. The message was similar to the others in the same block lettering: _See? He doesn’t love you. You’re not good enough for him. You can’t make him happy. Get out of his life._

She didn’t really believe the words. At least she didn’t want to. But after not seeing him for so long, she had a hard time keeping her mind from chasing stray doubts. His letters said all the right things, but she missed talking to him, seeing the expression on his face, being able to read his feelings in his eyes. Could she really believe what he said the last time they were together? Had he changed his mind? No! She wouldn’t let her thoughts go in that direction again. He was coming. That had to mean something.

Crumpling the letter and picture angrily and jamming them into her pocket with her letters from home, she hurried from the Great Hall. She needed to get moving if she didn’t want to be late meeting him at the front gate. Of course, she knew she’d probably be early rather than late, but she’d already had to force herself to lie in bed until the sun came up and she couldn’t sit still any longer.

Bouncing down the front steps, she drew a deep breath. The cool air, ripe with the scents of early autumn, cleared her head. She’d slept very little, but that was nothing unusual. Since coming back to school, if she wasn’t having nightmares, she had a hard time making her brain shut down at night, no matter how tired she was. Last night she was mostly excited about Harry’s visit, but most of the time it was worries over her N.E.W.T. studies, or grief for Fred and others who were lost in the war, or anger about something someone had done or said, or just about life in general. She was glad not to have to worry about Greyback’s trial any longer, but the emotional turmoil from the abduction lingered at the fringes of her mind and occasionally consumed her with irrational fear. Every day was a constant battle for sanity.

But today she was going to put all of her worries aside and concentrate on spending a relaxing weekend with Harry. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks and nothing was going to spoil it for them. Quickening her steps in anticipation, she barely noticed her progress down the path to the gates.

She was still irritated that he was allowed only one visit a month. What made McGonagall think Ginny couldn’t focus on her studies and Head Girl duties if he came more often? Rubbish! Ginny knew if she could see him every weekend that she would do _better_ during the week. And how could Harry’s visits possibly be disruptive to the school? It was his school, too. All of the students but the first and second years had been around him since he started classes. Disruptive! What a load of…

Ginny halted in her tracks and stared in shock at the scene before her. Outside the front gates was the biggest mob of reporters and photographers she’d ever seen. And the minute they saw her, chaos erupted. They called her name, yelled questions (most of them quite rude), and blinded her with a strobe of camera flashes. The crowd grew rowdier by the second in their efforts to outdo one another for her attention.

She dashed behind a nearby tree and dropped her face into her hands. This couldn’t be happening. She’d heard other students talking about a few photographers hanging around the entrance since school started, but until now she hadn’t been close enough to see them for herself. And she now remembered that McGonagall had set up a charm that would keep the press back from the gates so visitors would have room to Apparate and Disapparate without being mobbed. Ginny hadn’t seen the need for it at the time, but was glad now for the headmistress’s foresight. At least Harry would be able to get in. How had they known he was coming? With a groan, she realized it was her own fault. Even though she hadn’t announced it widely, she also hadn’t kept it a secret. Why couldn’t everyone just leave them alone?

A sudden uproar told her Harry had arrived. She stepped from behind the tree to watch as he came through the gate without acknowledging the clambering crowd. Without thinking, she ran forward and flung herself at him.

He hugged her briefly, then held her away from him. “Not here,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of camera range.”

She nodded and walked quickly at his side back down the path toward the castle. She sneaked a look at him. He seemed perfectly calm, his expression impassive. She was shaking like a leaf and fighting to hold back tears. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned his arrival. He took her hand and squeezed it without looking at her. She squeezed back, grateful for the reassurance.

Once they rounded the bend in the road, beyond view of the crowd, Harry pulled her into a small grove of trees and wrapped her in a fierce hug. She clung to him, burying her face in his neck.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, kissing her gently across the top of her head.

“I am now,” she replied, tipping her head back and pulling his mouth down to hers. She poured every desire and frustration of the past few weeks into the kiss, running her hands through his hair, down his shoulders to his chest and around his waist beneath his traveling cloak to press herself as close as possible to him. She had no words to explain how much she’d missed him, so she gave her body free rein to show him. He responded immediately with equal need.

After a few moments, he pulled away, gasping for breath. “Ginny…” It came out as a croak as she feathered kisses down his neck. “Ginny… we need to go… somewhere… more private.”

“Not the castle,” she murmured between kisses. “Too many people…”

He dipped his head for another kiss, forgetting about privacy until they heard voices coming closer. They broke apart for a moment.

“The Quidditch pitch,” Ginny said. “Changing rooms.”

Harry nodded and she turned to head through the trees.

“Wait,” he said, pulling a silvery length of cloth from inside his cloak. “We don’t want anyone to see us headed down there, do we?”

They had to walk slowly under the Invisibility Cloak so their feet wouldn’t show, but the trip took even longer than necessary because they stopped so often to keep from stumbling over each other as they stole kisses.

Once they were inside the changing room, Ginny paused in removing her cloak to watch Harry put locking and silencing charms on the door and take off his cloak. He looked so good. He was more muscular since starting his Auror training, but sleek and graceful, like his stag Patronus. She loved just watching him move. He felt good, too, even better than she remembered—strong but gentle, her rock and warm blanket in one. She couldn’t believe he was finally here after all the days of waiting…

Without warning, everything caught up with her—missing Harry, sleepless nights, worries over studies and Head Girl responsibilities, pictures in the paper, mysterious letters, conflicts and grief and fear and anger and the ever-present longing for home. She felt as though she’d been plunged to the bottom of a roiling sea of emotion and, try as she might, she couldn’t make her way back to the surface of sanity. She knew what was coming and, to her horror, was helpless to stop it.

As he turned to take her back into his arms, she burst into tears.

***

Harry wondered what he’d missed in the last few seconds. She was fine just a moment ago, and now she was clinging to him and sobbing as if her heart was breaking.

This wasn’t the Ginny he’d been expecting. One of the things he’d always liked about Ginny was that she wasn’t prone to being a human hosepipe. Cho Chang, his first girlfriend, had been—and things hadn’t worked out so well. But Ginny was different. Or he’d thought she was. But she’d been through so much this past year—much more in one year than Cho ever had. He supposed Ginny had right to cry if she needed to. But that didn’t mean he knew what to do about it.

Harry had little experience with receiving or giving comfort. Even when he needed it, he shunned it. His tears had gone unheeded when he was young and by the time he reached Hogwarts he had built a complex series of shields to keep out anyone who might even think about trying to comfort him. Mrs. Weasley was the only one who had ever breached them. And his limited experience in giving comfort had consisted mostly of being a sounding board for Hermione when she and Ron were having problems. Did this mean he and Ginny were having problems, too? Hermione had said something was bothering her. Was it something to do with him?

Patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, Harry wracked his brain desperately. Ron had given him a book, _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches,_ for his birthday last year. Had it even mentioned how to handle unexplained crying? She wasn’t pushing him away—that had to be a good sign, didn’t it? He decided to tackle the problem head on.

“Ginny, what’s wrong? Did I do something?”

She shook her head against his wet jumper and just sobbed harder.

He tried to remember if he’d ever seen anyone else handle a situation like this. Ginny had sat with her arms around Mrs. Weasley when Fred died. No one had died recently that he knew of, but it seemed like a good place to start. He wrapped his arms more tightly around her. She slid hers around his waist and her sobs quieted a bit.

Okay, good. That seemed to be working. What now? He remembered seeing Andromeda rock Teddy when he cried.

“Ginny, let’s sit down.” She let him lead her to the bench centered between the lockers. He settled her on his lap, held her close, and swayed gently. She snuggled against him and cried silently, her shudders growing less violent.

Yes! He decided he must be doing something right and kept up the cuddling and stroking her hair for what seemed like an hour. Eventually, the tears stopped and only an occasional sniffle interrupted her ragged breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered hoarsely, searching her cloak pocket for a handkerchief.

“It’s okay. It’s—it’s nothing I did, is it?”

“No.” She blew her nose and laid her head on his shoulder.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead and tightened his arms around her again. “I just wish I knew what to do to help.”

She pulled back and looked at him. “You’re doing it, Harry. You’ve been doing exactly what I need.”

“I wasn’t sure… I’m not good at this, you know.”

She smiled. “You were brilliant.” Her smile faded and she looked away. “I’m just sorry you had to bother with it. It’s been a rough few weeks. I think everything just hit me at once.” She nervously swiped at her swollen eyes. “I must look like a sight. Not exactly how I planned things.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “I think you look fine. Do you need to talk about it?”

“Not now.” She sat up to kiss his cheek. “Maybe later.”

Harry let out a small breath of relief. He didn’t feel equipped to handle this much emotion all at once.

She snuggled her face against his neck and began trailing soft kisses upward to his jaw. He pressed his lips over hers and she responded with an enthusiasm he wasn’t expecting. Suddenly, her mouth was pressed to his as if he was her only source of air, and her hands were under his jumper, moving boldly over his back and chest. Harry knew from years of experience that her passions could run high, but this second abrupt change in direction on Ginny’s emotional carousel was making him dizzy—this was extreme, even by her standards. But he had no intention of getting off the ride.

They had explored each other before, in the secluded corners of Hogwarts and in her room the night of their reunion, but it had always been timid and through several layers of clothing. The only time things had gone this far had been in Harry’s dreams. He didn’t want to wake up.

He was surprised to find his own hands had found their way beneath her blouse to tentatively caress the smooth skin of her back. He didn’t dare let them wander into more dangerous territory—one false move might send things spinning in a different direction. He was quite happy with the way things were going.

Apparently, Ginny wasn’t. When she pulled away from him, his dismay quickly turned to surprise as she yanked the hem of his jumper over his head, sending his glasses flying and both of them tumbling over the side of the bench. Harry hit the floor with a thud, his head banging painfully on the cold stone. He grunted as she landed on top of him.

“Oh, Harry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said quickly, pressing kisses onto his face. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said gruffly as he held her face still to place a kiss on her lips. His head throbbed, but he’d been injured far worse than this before and for far less worthy causes, including the defeat of Voldemort.

As she pulled away from him again, he started to moan in protest, then froze. The pain in his head ebbed to nothing as every nerve ending in his body migrated to the place beneath where Ginny had settled her cute little bum. She was straddling his hips, seated directly on the most sensitive part of his anatomy. Her hands were moving, but Harry didn’t notice what she was doing until her blouse slipped off her shoulders, revealing a delicate scrap of pink lace that barely covered the most interesting bulges of skin he’d ever seen. When the lace fell away as well, he forgot how to breathe. She picked up his hands and placed them where the lace had been, then leaned forward and blew life back into him.

Coherent thought was impossible, but his body seemed to know what to do without a brain attached. And Ginny seemed to know exactly what she wanted. She kissed him thoroughly for a few moments, then sat up and braced herself against his shoulders, moving her hips rhythmically, sending jolts of electricity through him with each stroke. His hands moved without conscious prompting, but he needed more—he needed to taste her. Propping up on one elbow, he covered her nipple with his mouth and ran his tongue around it. She gasped. Afraid he’d done something wrong, he moved away, only to have her pull him back.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, don’t stop.”

Her breath was coming in little pants and her movements became more forceful, driving them both closer to the brink. He licked again, then suckled a little. At her moan of pleasure, he drew the nipple fully into his mouth and sucked harder. She cried out and clutched his shoulders as shudders rippled through her body. Sagging against him, she pushed them both back to the floor.

He groaned. The throbbing in his jeans had intensified to Cruciatus proportions. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt more tortured, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to decide what to do next. Gritting his teeth, he drew deep breaths, trying to concentrate on bringing his heart rate back to normal.

She lay quietly with her head on his shoulder for a few moments, so still he thought she’d gone to sleep. But soon she began moving her hand over his chest, back and forth, moving a bit lower with each stroke as if trying to cover every inch of him, until her fingers were brushing the waistband of his jeans. His breathing grew ragged. His hopes soared. She ran the tips of her fingers along the last bit of uncovered skin, a feather-light touch that tickled. In reflex, he sucked in his stomach, leaving a gap between clothing and body that she slipped her fingers into. His startled brain stalled for a moment, then kicked into gear, sending his trembling fingers to fumble frantically with his belt and zipper. When her cool hand wrapped around him, what was left of his brain exploded.

Her strokes were gentle, cautious—too gentle, too cautious.

“More,” he pleaded.

She sat up and wrapped both hands around him. He brought his hips up, thrusting in her grip, but it wasn’t enough.

“Show me, Harry. What do you need?”

He placed his hands over hers and tightened their hold, drawing them in long strokes with ever increasing speed until he erupted with a shout. His arms fell limply to the floor and he sucked in great gasps of air. She crawled to his side and nestled against him, holding him through the aftermath.

When he could breathe properly again, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

“I hope that was okay,” she said in a serious tone. “I’m not very good at this, you know.”

He laughed and gave her a squeeze. “You…” -- he tilted her face up for a kiss -- “were brilliant.” After a pause he continued thoughtfully, “In fact, you seem to know a fair bit about it.”

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I grew up with six brothers.”

Harry was shocked. “They talked to you about it?”

“Oh, no,” she said casually. “But a little girl can find lots of places to hide when she wants to spy on her big brothers.”

Harry laughed out loud, picturing Ginny hiding under the bed in Fred and George’s room. “Did they ever catch you?”

“Just once. When I was about nine. Bill and Charlie were having a wanking contest in the orchard behind the house. I was in a tree right over their heads. I was there first, but, to be fair, I didn’t let them know.”

Harry could feel his skin ignite like a torch at the image in his head. He’d obviously missed out on a lot by not having a brother. “A wanking contest?”

“Yeah. They were trying to see who could shoot the farthest. Or maybe to see who could last longer before shooting...I don’t remember exactly. I think it was right after Charlie finished school. They were quite pissed.”

Harry bit his tongue for a moment, but finally had to ask the question. “So—erm, who won?”

“Bill. But I think it was only because he was less drunk. They wouldn’t have known I was there except that I started laughing so hard I fell on them. I still use it sometimes when I need leverage.”

Harry knew he’d never be able to look at Bill or Charlie with a straight face again. He also filed away the knowledge that Ginny was willing to do what she needed to get something she really wanted. She was too matter-of-fact about the whole thing to make him think she was manipulative in a malicious way, but he could tell she had a knack for using her resources.  

They lay snuggling on the hard stone floor until Ginny shivered, and Harry realized how cold they were. Holding up his hand, he caught his glasses as they zoomed from where they’d landed across the room. With another wave, he cleaned the mess from his abdomen, and a third wave warmed the floor beneath them.

Ginny pushed herself up to look at him in astonishment. “Harry. You did all that without a wand.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been working on it. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah. Cool,” she said with a smile as she settled back on his shoulder.

He pulled her cloak off the bench to cover them and several pieces of paper fell from the pocket, hitting him in the face. As Ginny gathered two envelopes that landed above his head, he picked up the crumpled ones by his shoulder. She made a grab for them, but the content of the wrinkled letter had caught his eye and he snatched it away from her.

“Hold on. What’s this?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow. “Who sent this?”

She made another grab for it and he held it away, looking at her with a scowl.

“Ginny, who sent this?”

She crossed her arms over her still bare chest, creating two distracting mounds of flesh. “I don’t know. They just keep sending them with no name.”

Her words snapped him back to attention. “Them? You’ve got more than one of these?”

She pressed her lips together and frowned before reluctantly murmuring, “Yes.”

“How many?”

She wouldn’t look at him.

“Ginny, how many?”

With a huff she mumbled, “I don’t know. A dozen, maybe?”

“A dozen!” he exploded. “A dozen! Why haven’t you told me about this? You’ve received twelve threatening letters and you didn’t tell me?”

“They’re not threatening.” Her voice rose to match his volume. “They don’t say anything about hurting me if I don’t do what they say.”

“Ginny! How can you say—”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” she yelled back. “Because I knew you’d yell.”

He flopped back with a growl, bumping his head on the hard floor in the process. “Ow.”

“Serves you right,” she said primly.

He glowered at the ceiling, and they lay in stony silence for a few moments. He was irritated as much by the new change in mood as by the letter. “I want to know if you get any more of them,” he said finally. “In fact, I want you to send them to me unopened. We might be able to trace them.”

She sighed heavily and scooted back under his arm to rest her head on his shoulder, pulling the cloak over them both. “Okay. But I don’t think they’re worth the bother.”

He shook his head in wonder at the continuing ricochet of emotions, and gave her a squeeze. “ _You’re_ worth the bother.”

Setting aside the letter for later inspection, he held up the newspaper clipping and laughed in surprise. “Ha! Would you look at that? The _Prophet_ will print anything, won’t it?”

Ginny squirmed against him. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head to look at her face. “What’s wrong? I think it’s one of the better pictures of us. Shame Ron’s not in it, though.”

“So where was he?” Her voice held just the tiniest hint of accusation.

Harry gave her a surprised look. “Ginny, you’re not taking this rubbish seriously, are you?”

“No,” she said carefully, but it came out as more of a question and she wouldn’t look at him.

He held the picture up and took his hand from her back to point at the side of the photo. “Watch. See? Look at Hermione’s other arm.”

Ginny studied the photograph.

“There!” He pointed as an elbow linked through Hermione’s came into view. “That’s Ron’s arm. He was there. They just cropped him out. Sells more papers that way.”

Ginny buried her face in his chest and mumbled against him, “Sorry.”

He rolled them over so he could look at her directly. “You can’t pay attention to this stuff. They’re going to make the worst possible muck out of it no matter what you do, so you just try to avoid them if you can, and ignore them if you can’t.” He kissed her gently, then lay back down and pulled her next to him, relishing the sensation of skin against skin. She snuggled close and threw her arm across him.

“So what were you doing, then?”

He told her about Ron’s autograph and Hermione’s birthday dinner and everyone and everything going on at home. Ginny told him about how the teachers seemed to be making up for lost time with their N.E.W.T. classes and the frustrations of her Head Girl duties. After her crying jag, he had the feeling she was leaving some things out—probably a lot of things—but decided not to press his luck for now.

She kissed him, then sat up. “I guess we need to go. It’s probably lunchtime.”

He didn’t move, watching hungrily as she dressed. He wanted badly to ask her to stop, but was afraid of making a wrong move.

She poked him in the stomach before buttoning her blouse. “You better get up. Or, do you want the team to just step over you when they come in for practice?”

That got him moving.

***

Ginny felt better than she had in weeks. The tears seemed to have washed away the Dementors that had been inhabiting her soul, and the—well, the “other”—had left so many happy thoughts bouncing around her brain she thought she could produce a Patronus the size of Buckbeak.

She hadn’t meant to take things as far as she did any more than she’d meant to have a breakdown. She was totally mortified to have cried like a baby and more than a bit embarrassed about her own boldness afterward, but it had just seemed right to follow her instincts. And from the goofy grin on his face, Harry seemed to think so, too. No matter what the differences in their personalities, boys really were all alike.

She squeezed his hand as they made their way under the Invisibility Cloak back to the main path (no point letting anyone in on where they’d been-- they might want to go back later).

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He looked surprise. “You’re welcome. What did I do?”

“You didn’t run away when I went mental.”

“You’ve always hung around when I did,” he said reasonably. “It was the least I could do.”

They stepped into a small thicket of trees to stash the cloak in his pocket, then walked back onto the path. From here they could see Hagrid’s hut and the castle entrance across the front lawn.

Harry stopped abruptly. Ginny could tell from his expression that he had been transported back to that night, was again seeing the death and destruction, still feeling the burden of blame for it. His hand was trembling. She gripped it tightly and leaned closer to him.

“The first time is the hardest,” she said, stroking his arm with her other hand.

He silently surveyed the scene, shadows of past horrors clouding in his eyes. “How do you do it?” he whispered. “How do you walk around here every day?”

“It gets—“ She searched for the right words. “It never... goes away. But it... it gets a little less horrible each day.”

But for the trembling, he was still as stone. Ginny stood quietly, waiting. She knew, from her own experience, he needed a little time to adjust. After many long minutes, he turned away from the castle toward the expanse of lawn sloping down to the lake. She hurried to keep up as he strode deliberately, seemingly unaware that he was nearly dragging her along. As abruptly as he’d started, he stopped before Dumbledore’s tomb. Releasing her hand, he walked slowly forward. Ginny stood where he’d left her, giving him time and space. She wasn’t sure he’d ever properly grieved for the man who had become more father than headmaster to him. He trailed his fingers across the name engraved in the white marble. She swallowed hard, forcing the tears back, as she watched him.

Approaching voices brought her out of her reverie, though he didn’t seem to notice them. Ginny turned to find the source of the sound and immediately recognized some of Romilda’s fan club cohorts, no doubt scouting the grounds for Harry. They were giggling and making a beeline for the tomb. Ginny wasn’t going to let those silly bints get anywhere near him if she could help it, especially right now. He needed his privacy.

She slid her wand from her pocket, grateful for the one non-verbal spell she had mastered in Defense class so far this year: the Confundus Charm.

***

The last time he’d been at this tomb was just a couple of days after the battle when he had come to return the Elder Wand to its rightful owner. (No matter who the wand thought it belonged to, in Harry’s mind, it was Dumbledore’s.) Once the crowds of Healers, Aurors, Ministry officials, and curiosity seekers had dwindled, Ron and Hermione had come with him to keep watch so no one would see him replace the wand in the tomb. They had Apparated directly in during the middle of the night (the protective enchantments hadn’t been restored yet), replaced the wand, and Disapparated away. They were here no more than a few minutes, so this was really the first time he’d been back to Hogwarts since the night Voldemort was defeated.

He should’ve been prepared. He’d been working for months with his Mind Healer to overcome the flashbacks and nightmares brought on by years of traumatic experiences that had ended in that one terrible night. So, he should have realized what coming back would do. But he had been looking forward to seeing Ginny, and it hadn’t occurred to him that being here would trigger such powerful memories.

At the first sight of the front lawn, where he’d lain at Voldemort’s feet pretending to be dead, the horrors had rushed over him like a tidal wave. The only thing he could think of was to find the one person who had always sorted everything out when the world became too terrifying—Dumbledore.

Harry ran his fingers over the marble. It brought no comfort. Although he’d tried to come to terms with his revelations of Dumbledore’s manipulations, and the “King’s Cross” conversation with his former headmaster had eased some of the pain, he didn’t feel the closeness and comfort he’d expected. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the cold stone, drawing ragged breaths as the darkness took over. The sensation was nearly identical to the visions he’d had when his scar had connected him to Voldemort, but this time he was reliving his own terrors—and it was much worse.

_He was standing once more at the edge of the forest, his parents, Sirius, and Remus encouraging him as his heart beat like a frantic Snitch in his chest. His body trembled and his lungs seemed unable to hold what little air he was able to draw in as he moved slowly into the deepening darkness. What if, this time, the curse worked? What if, this time, he didn’t return from King’s Cross? What if…_

“Harry! Harry!”

_He could hear Ginny calling him from a great distance. Had she followed him into the forest? No, she couldn’t have—he was wearing his Invisibility Cloak. She wouldn’t have seen him…_

“Harry! Talk to me!”

_She was closer. He had to send her back. She shouldn’t be here. Voldemort would kill her…_

“Harry!”

He struggled to open his eyes. Ginny was kneeling over him, shaking his shoulders, her face filled with terror. How had he got onto the ground?

He looked around, wiping the cold sweat from his face with a shaking hand.

“I—I’m fine,” he murmured.

“No, you’re not,” she said quietly.

He lay there working hard to bring his mind back to the present, trying not to look at the worried frown on her face.

“I said I’m fine.” He hadn’t meant to sound annoyed.

She helped him sit up. “No,” she said firmly. “You’re not.”

“Yes—“

“Harry, shut up.” In that moment she looked more like her mother than he’d ever realized. “‘I’m fine’ is Harry-speak for ‘I’m not fine but I don’t want to talk about it.’”

He looked away from her, jaw set in silent protest.

“Harry,” she said more gently. “Talk to me. What happened?”

He wanted to push her away, to retreat into himself as he had since he was a child. He couldn’t tell her what happened. She’d think he was mental. Or worse, she’d be horrified by the tale—he hadn’t told anyone but Ron and Hermione the details. He couldn’t stand to see the revulsion in her face…

She placed her hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her. Something in her eyes stirred his memory. When he’d first begun seeing into Voldemort’s mind and thought he was a nutter or worse, Ginny was the one who had pulled him out of his downward spiral of guilt and depression. She was the one who had reminded him that she was the only other person he knew who had been possessed by the Dark Lord. She alone shared that bond with him. If anyone could understand what he was going through now, it would be Ginny.

He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his head back against the tomb. “Flashback… to when I went into the forest that night.”

She waited patiently, not pressing or trying to explain, like Hermione might have, just holding his hand and waiting for him to continue when he was ready. It was that as much as anything that helped him go on. He told her everything—about Snape’s memories and going into the forest with no expectation of returning. About opening the Snitch and seeing his loved ones. About standing unarmed before Voldemort, impatient to get it over with. And about talking to Dumbledore at “King’s Cross”… and choosing to come back.

“I passed you,” he said wearily. “On the way to the forest. I passed you. You were helping an injured girl and I wanted so badly to stop and tell you goodbye, because I didn’t think I’d be coming back. But I knew if I stopped, I—I wouldn’t be able to go on.” He reached out and wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I thought of you… at the end. Or what I thought was the end.”

She put her arms around his neck and drew him to her. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her. He felt he’d finally come home.


	4. Broomsticks & Fangirls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny's insecurities get in the way -- or do they?

As they made their way into the castle, Ginny could tell he was still struggling with the memories, but was managing to hold himself together. The story he’d told—the fear and dread lingering in his voice—followed her like a black cloud. He’d been through so much. Had given so much. And the Wizarding world just kept asking for more. He’d nearly given his life for them. Why couldn’t everyone just let him live in peace? She clamped down on the sudden spurt of anger that began boiling beneath the surface of her calm façade. He needed her to be strong right now. She could be angry later.

He stopped at the threshold of the Great Hall, looking about as if he were seeing a different scene than the one before him. His eyes were haunted, his face pale, but he was in control. She gave his hand a squeeze.

“All right?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said without looking at her. “I’m fine.”

She smirked at him. “Fine, huh?”

He looked at her then and smiled. “Yeah. Just fine.”

“IT’S HIM! HE’S HERE”

At the first scream, Harry had drawn his wand and stepped in front of Ginny before she could even find the source of the sound. She kicked herself for failing to notice the cluster of girls sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table—all of whom were now on their feet, screaming at the tops of their lungs like groupies at a Weird Sisters concert. Ginny glared at Romilda, who signaled for the group to be quiet and began calmly making her way toward Harry. He lowered his wand and relaxed. Ginny didn’t. She stepped in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Romilda, I told you not to plan anything. You must like serving detention with Filch.”

Romilda gave Ginny a look of surprise that wasn’t quite convincing. “But we _didn’t_ plan anything. This is our regular club meeting. How were we supposed to know you were going to bring him in here?”

“It’s lunchtime. Where else are we supposed to eat?”

“Hmmm. Good question,” Romilda said with a smirk. She shifted her eyes to Harry and broke into a smile that held genuine warmth. “Hi, Harry,” she cooed. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hello, Romilda. How have you been?” He was polite, but not overly friendly.

“Oh, just fine, now that you’ve defeated You-Know-Who.”

“His name was Voldemort,” Harry said with a touch of annoyance.

“Yes. V—V— Yes. Well, we wanted to thank you for what you did. Would you mind coming over to speak to the girls for a minute?”

Ginny was ready to explode, but Harry’s hands came down on her shoulders in a soothing gesture. She looked up at him in surprise. He was looking at Romilda.

“Not this time,” he said. “I have a prior commitment.”

Ginny resisted the urge to stick out her tongue as he began guiding her toward the other end of the Gryffindor table.

“I’d like to strangle that girl,” Ginny said just loud enough for Harry to hear.

“She’s not worth it,” he said into her ear as he gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Just ignore her.”

Ginny looked up at him. His face was expressionless, just as it had been at the gates. She was irritated by the sound of their names being repeated in undertones throughout the room as they walked down the aisle. He didn’t seem to hear.

“How can you be so calm about all of this—the reporters, everyone looking at you?” she whispered.

“Loads of practice,” he said. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”

“I’m not so sure,” she muttered.

“Harry! Welcome back!” Neville Longbottom had jumped from his seat and begun pumping Harry’s hand vigorously.

“Thanks, Neville.” Harry looked across the table. “Hi, Seamus. Dean. Can we join you?”

Seamus rose to shake Harry’s hand. Dean greeted them unenthusiastically as Neville gestured for them to sit. The conversation flowed easily, but Dean just continued to concentrate on his food. Ginny gave him a smile, hoping to bring him into the discussion, but he wouldn’t let her catch his eye.

“So, how does Gryffindor look for the Quidditch Cup this year, Dean?”

Dean looked up in surprise at Harry’s question. “We should do okay,” he said with a shrug, then returned his attention to his meal.

“We’d do better if our captain wouldn’t let our best player skive off practice for the weekend,” Seamus said.

Harry looked between Seamus and Dean with a questioning frown.

“Well, she said she had _better_ things to do,” Dean said, glaring at Ginny.

“Wait a minute.” Harry was looking at her, too, now. “You mean you’re skipping practice because I’m here?”

She scowled at the boys across the table before turning to state her case. “Harry, I haven’t seen you in nearly three weeks—”

Harry shook his head. “But that’s not fair to the rest of the team.”

“I’m going to make it up. Besides, it looks like I’m going to have to play Seeker anyway. My not being there won’t mess up practice—”

“Except that we’ve still got to get Creevey in shape to play your spot at Chaser,” Dean said.

“I told you I’d work an extra hour with him every day next week,” Ginny said.

“Creevey? Dennis Creevey is playing?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, he wants to play Seeker,” Dean said. “Actually, he was the only one to try out, but he flies like a Flobberworm. I asked Ginny to teach him the right moves, but he’ll never be ready in time—not even to run interference as Chaser.”

“That means I have to play Seeker,” Ginny added glumly.

After a moment, Harry surprised them both. “What if I work with Creevey while the rest of the team practices?”

Ginny thought the look of shock on Dean’s face must have mirrored hers. But while Dean’s expression melted into a huge smile, Ginny’s turned to outrage. They both started talking at once.

“No! I’ll never be able to concentrate on practice with you here.”

“That’s bloody brilliant! You’d be willing to do that?”

Harry looked from Ginny to Dean then back again. She could see the old Quidditch Captain in him emerging and wanted to scream.

“Ginny, you have to go to practice,” he said firmly. “Gryffindor will never win the Cup if the team doesn’t practice together.”

“I don’t care—”

He held up a hand to interrupt her. “Yes, you do. Or you will come spring when Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw wins.” He turned on his most charming smile. “Besides, it’ll only be a couple of hours and I promise I’ll stay afterward until McGonagall runs me off.”

She knew she was beaten, but she wasn’t giving up without a final punch. “You’d better make it up to me,” she said scowling darkly at each of them in turn, “Both of you.”

They grinned and shared a look of understanding that she didn’t trust a bit.

***

Creevey was every bit as bad as Dean and Ginny said. And it didn’t help that he nearly passed out when Dean told him that Harry would be training him. Harry had a feeling that he was even worse than usual because of nerves, which didn’t make much sense. Dennis had always seemed ready to try anything—the night he arrived at Hogwarts as a first year, he’d fallen out of the boat crossing the lake and been rescued by the Giant Squid. Harry had never seen him back down from a challenge. As a second year, Dennis had been the youngest member of Dumbledore’s Army, and had won nearly as many duels as he’d lost, even against a couple of seventh years. Harry felt certain Creevey was capable of flying and he was determined to teach him.

“All right, try it again. Don’t think about it so much. Just let your feelings guide you.”

Harry watched as Creevey went into his dive. Without warning, his broom began vibrating and listing to the left a bit before shuddering violently and pitching forward, tossing Dennis into a freefall. Harry dived after him, grabbing him fifty feet from the ground and landing them both gently.

“I think your biggest problem is your broom,” Harry said as Dennis bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

“It’s a school broom,” Dennis said between gasps. “I don’t have one.”

Harry kicked off to retrieve the ratty old broom that had begun floating in circles after dumping its rider. The school brooms had always been unreliable, but Harry thought this one looked like it had gone round the bend. He landed in front of the broom shed and checked out the others.

“That’s the best of the lot,” Dennis said as he walked up. “I’ve tried them all.”

“This is pathetic,” Harry growled. “How do they expect anyone to learn to fly or play Quidditch on these things?”

The memory of the brand new Nimbus 2000 that he got first year popped into Harry’s head along with an idea for a solution.

Harry held out his shiny new Lightning Streak (custom made for him by the manufacturer to replace the Firebolt lost in his escape from the Dursleys). “Here. Try my broom. Let’s see if it’s easier.”

He almost laughed at the look of shock and wonder that came over Creevey’s face.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. It’s—it’s—what if I break it? What if—”

“You won’t. Go on. I’ll ride this one.”

Creevey reverently wrapped his hands around the broom shaft, and held it at arm’s length in front of him as if he were afraid it might break just because he was holding it.

“It won’t bite. Go ahead,” Harry said with a laugh. “It’s fast, though. Just take it easy until you get the feel of it.”

Creevey mounted the broom and tentatively kicked off—then held on for dear life as it zoomed skyward. Harry jumped onto the school broom. He had no hope of catching up, but he was able to control it better than Dennis had. By the time he had risen above the goal posts, Dennis was making his third round of the pitch, totally out of control, with a look of pure joy on his face.

Harry cast a charm to slow him down, then pulled alongside of him on the next pass.

“See if you can try that dive now,” he called.

Dennis leaned into the broom, pointing it downward. He pulled out only inches from the ground, then tumbled off and giggled with glee as he landed flat on his back in the grass. The Lightning Streak glided to a stop a few feet away.

“Oh wow! Is that what flying is supposed to be like? That was amazing—” Dennis babbled breathlessly for several moments, suddenly reminding Harry painfully of Colin, Dennis’s older brother who had worshipped Harry mercilessly for years... until he had been killed in the final battle. “I can’t believe what I’ve been missing. Mum and Dad are just going to have to get me a new broom now. I know they can’t afford one this good, but they just have to get me one. That was incredible!”

Harry swallowed down the knot that formed in his throat and forced a smile. “Yeah, it is incredible, isn’t it?”

Dean landed next to them. “That was great, Creevey. How’d you do that so quick, Harry?”

“Loaned him my broom,” Harry said and held up the school broom. “No one can fly on this piece of crap.” He tossed the broom to the ground in disgust. “He’d be okay if he had a decent broom.”

Dean nodded. “That shouldn’t be too hard to fix. I’ll talk to McGonagall.”

The rest of the team landed, congratulating Dennis on his rapid improvement while he told them in great detail about the thrill of riding Harry’s broom.

Ginny sidled next to Harry. “You haven’t let _me_ ride your broom yet,” she murmured just loud enough for him to hear.

The wicked gleam in her eye put a totally unrelated image in his mind. He couldn’t stop the rush of heat that flashed through his body and the grin that stole over his face. Grateful that the attention of the team was turned on Dennis, he cleared his throat and put his arm around her waist. “You’re welcome to ride it anytime,” he murmured.

She nodded solemnly. “I might just take you up on that offer, Mr. Potter.”

***

Harry finished his note and sealed the envelope. “Kreacher?”

With a soft pop the ancient elf bowed low before him. “Yes, Master Harry. Kreacher is at your service.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I need you to take this to Fleur. Please tell her it’s very important and that she mustn’t tell anyone about it.”

“Yes, Master Harry,” Kreacher said as his nose touched the floor in another bow.

“I really wish you wouldn’t—” But the house-elf was gone with a pop. Harry shook his head. “Bloody elf.”

Settling onto the sofa in front of the fireplace to wait for Ginny to finish changing, Harry had the Gryffindor common room to himself for the moment. The rest of the House was apparently at supper. The only people he’d seen were Lavender and Parvati, who had scrambled quickly up the stairs the moment he’d entered.

Laying his head back, he closed his eyes and allowed his memories of this room to drift through his mind. This is where he’d always felt most at home and he felt no different now, even though he had a house of his own. Truth be told, he didn’t really like living at Grimmauld Place. Kreacher and Fleur, who was there most days working as his publicist, had done a lot to improve it, but it held too many bad memories. Mostly it was just convenient. Once the war was over, Harry had gone there because he hadn’t wanted to stay at the Burrow and he’d had neither the time nor energy to find another place. Even so, he’d probably stay for a while. The concealment and protection charms were invaluable and, between his Auror training and other official Ministry duties, he wasn’t there much anyway. One day, he’d think about moving, but he hoped he’d have someone else to help decide where—someone who would be moving in with him.

As he smiled at that thought, two soft, cool hands slipped over his eyes. Grinning wickedly, he grabbed the attached wrists and flipped their owner over the back of the sofa into his lap—then promptly stood and dumped her onto the floor.

“Sorry, Romilda,” he said. “Thought you were Ginny.”

He offered a hand to help her up, looking quickly away at the expanse of skin visible at the neckline of her shirt and below the hem of her short, tight skirt. She appeared unruffled.

“It’s okay, Harry.” She took longer than necessary to let go of his hand and smiled seductively as she took her time adjusting her clothing. “You can pull me into your lap anytime.”

His face and neck burning, he took a step back as she advanced on him.

“But dumping me on the floor _was_ a bit rude.” She trailed a finger along his jaw. “I can think of a number of ways you can make it up to me.”

Harry stepped back again and found his legs against the armchair. “I’m taken, Romilda.”

She stuck her lip out in a provocative pout and took another step closer, trapping him against the chair. “Come on, Harry. You can have any girl you want...as many girls as you want.”

“I don’t want any other girl.”

“I can’t imagine why you want her. She’s—”

“I _do_ ,” he said in a tone meant to end the conversation.

Romilda sighed in exasperation, then pressed herself against him and looked up from beneath lowered lashes. “Well, even so, you can still have any girl you want. She doesn’t have to know.”

“I don’t have to know what?” Ginny stood at the foot of the steps to the girl’s dormitory, wand drawn, looking fit to kill.

Harry blew out a breath of relief as Romilda stumbled back to the other end of the couch. He didn’t want her advances, but he hadn’t wanted to use force to get rid of her, either. Spurned women did malicious things. He’d already had several close calls that hadn’t been allowed to fully blossom, thanks to Fleur. He really wasn’t paying her enough.

Ginny advanced on Romilda. “I’ve been very tolerant so far. But it ends now, Romilda. Detention for a week for harassing a guest. And the next time something like this happens I’m going to McGonagall to ask that she dock points. Now get out of my sight and stay out.”

Romilda clenched her fists in frustration and looked as though she was biting her tongue to keep from retorting. With a growl, she finally beat a hasty retreat up the dormitory stairs.

Still seething, Ginny turned on Harry. “This has happened before, hasn’t it? Not with her, but with others.”

He set his jaw and stiffened his spine for the apparent row to come. “Yes,” he said, never flinching from her stare.

“And it’ll keep happening, won’t it?”

“Unfortunately, it’s likely.” He watched the conflict of emotions run through her eyes as she drew in deep breaths. “Ginny, I don’t encourage it. I can’t control what other people do. I can only control what I do about it.”

“You didn’t look like you were _doing_ anything about it,” she spat, finally giving up on controlling her anger.

“I was, but you came in. I told her—”

“ _Told_ her! Told her what! You can’t _tell_ a girl like Romilda anything. You’ve got to _show_ her that you mean business. Harry, you don’t even have to draw a wand to hex someone. Why was she still standing?”

“What?” He was beginning to lose his temper, but kept his voice low, certain that Romilda was listening from the stairs. “I should give her a reason to run to the _Prophet_ or _Witch Weekly_ with some wild lie that they can print? Come on, Ginny. Give me some credit here. I’ve been doing this for a while.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you have—” Cutting off her rant as a group of rowdy third (or maybe fourth)-years came in, Ginny gave him a blazing glare, then turned on her heel and ducked out the portrait hole. 

Harry gaped for a moment, then launched into action, pushing past the startled students to follow. “Ginny! Wait!” 

***

Ginny knew her insecurities were in control and that she had been totally unreasonable. Just a few minutes—that’s all she needed. Just a few minutes to think. She dashed down the stairs and made it to the sixth floor corridor before he grabbed her arm.

She jerked it away. “Leave me alone.”

“No! We need to talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Fine. We won’t talk, then.”

Before she realized what he was doing, he had pulled her into an empty classroom, waved his hand at the door and crushed her into a mind-numbing kiss. It was demanding, possessive. And his hands were everywhere. Part of her brain was responding to him, the other part was wondering who had Polyjuiced himself to look like Harry.

In the eight years she’d known him, she’d seen every facet of Harry’s personality. His dominant side was shy and unsure, seemingly in awe that anyone would like him, as if he was just waiting for them to realize that they had taken leave of their senses in putting up with him. That side rarely initiated physical contact of any kind, not even a casual touch. Even in their private moments, he almost always let her take the lead—his kisses tentative, cautious, as if he couldn’t believe he was being allowed to touch her and expected at any moment to make a wrong move that might mean he’d have to stop.

But when Harry allowed his other side to come out—when he decided to take control—he was a force to be reckoned with. The Harry kissing her now was the one who had saved the Philosopher’s Stone, killed the Basilisk, flown to London on a Thestral to save Sirius. This Harry had defeated Voldemort.

She’d never been so aroused in her life.

His hands cupped her bum and pressed her close to the evidence of his own arousal. She moaned into his mouth and he pushed her against the wall, making quick work of the buttons down the front of her blouse. His lips and fingers trailed fire down her neck and beyond. With a gasp, she buried her fingers in his hair to encourage him.

She fumbled with his belt. “Need you—” she gasped.

“Not here,” he said against her ear. “Want the first time to be special.”

She started to argue, but his mouth covered hers. She bucked against him, pushing his head back down to her aching nipple and his hand down to the source of her frustration. He fumbled a moment with the buttons on her jeans, then slipped his fingers into her knickers. The briefest touch was all it took to send her over the edge. If he hadn’t been supporting her, she’d have slid to the floor.

She sank into him, drawing deep, shuddering breaths. He held her close until she could stand on her own. Realizing with a start that she was dressed again, she wondered in amazement at how different he could be from one moment to the next.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I just—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Let me talk. This stuff—other women coming on to me—it’s going to happen. I don’t like it. I don’t encourage it. But I can’t control what other people do. I _can_ control what _I_ do. You don’t have to worry about this. I don’t want anyone else. You’re the only one for me, Ginny. The only one.”

He watched her, the uncertainty back in his eyes.

“I know,” she said and smiled as relief washed over his face. “I’m sorry. I just—”

He cut her off with a kiss and a tight embrace. She could feel his arousal. He didn’t seem to be asking anything from her, but when she wiggled against him, he grunted and dropped his head to her shoulder.

“Do we need to do something about that?” she asked, just as her stomach rumbled loudly.

He laughed against her throat. “Yeah. We need to go to supper.”

“But—”

“You’re starving.”

“Oh, I think I can survive for a few more minutes,” she said with a smirk.

His grin told her he could, too.

***

Ginny struggled to hang onto the dream, but it slipped away as her brain rose steadily into consciousness. She curled herself around Harry’s pillow, lingering in her fantasy and weaving it into memories of the reality they had spent together the day before. Most of the day had been wonderful, in spite of her spikes of emotion. The evening had been pleasant, if not quite as private as she would’ve liked. After tending to her Head Girl duties collecting the daily Prefect reports, they had visited with friends in the common room until everyone went to bed, then snogged on the couch until midnight, the curfew McGonagall had set for Harry to leave. Ginny was glad the Headmistress had agreed to allow him to use her Floo so they wouldn’t have to revisit the mob scene that had taken place at his arrival.

She peeked between her bed curtains. It was still too early. The sun was just beginning to wash the night sky with peach and gold. Harry wouldn’t be here for at least an hour, but she couldn’t go back to sleep, even though it was the best she’d slept in months. If she could become that relaxed just spending one day with him, what would it be like to spend the night in his arms? Cuddling his pillow, she allowed her mind to follow that lead for quite a while before becoming restless for the real Harry. She bounced out of bed to get ready, excited for the first time in weeks about the day ahead.

Unsurprisingly for such an early hour on Sunday, the Great Hall was fairly empty of students, though Ginny was annoyed to see Romilda and some of her cronies already stationed at the end of the Ravenclaw table, the one closest to the door. She was careful not to look in their direction when she walked passed, but had just got settled halfway down the Gryffindor table when she realized she’d been followed.

“Good morning, Ginny,” Romilda said in that familiar annoying sing-song voice.

Ginny gritted her teeth before turning to glare at her.

“I told you last night to get out of my sight. I better not see you for the rest of the day or—”

“Well, I just wanted to apologize,” Romilda said, though her expression said otherwise. “And to say how sorry I am to hear that you and Harry have broken up. I hope it wasn’t anything I said.”

Ginny took a deep breath to calm herself before speaking again. “What makes you think Harry and I broke up?”

“Well, it’s on the front page of the _Wizarding Gazette_. Actually, it’s in _Witch Weekly_ , too, but Lisa’s reading that one. Surely they wouldn’t print things that aren’t true, would they?” 

Ginny took the copy of the newspaper that Romilda offered and stared in surprise at the photo. The photographer had caught the moment at the front gates when she’d thrown her arms around Harry and he had set her away from him to suggest they move out of camera range (of course, with no sound, no one else would know that’s what he said). His expression was stern; hers was near to tears. The caption beneath had Ginny seeing red…

**_Love Potion Gone Wrong?_ **

> _Hero Harry Potter paid a visit to love interest Ginny Weasley at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Saturday, but is trouble rather than love brewing? After three weeks apart, the happy couple looks anything but, and they departed down the main path to the castle without touching. Perhaps Mr. Potter’s Friday evening stroll along the Thames with the fiancée of his best mate Ron Weasley, Ginny’s brother, has tainted the recipe for this love potion?_

 

Dumbfounded, Ginny looked up to find Romilda grinning smugly.

“Does this mean he’s fair game?”

Ginny crumpled the newspaper and shook it in the other girl’s face. “This means I’d better not lay eyes on you for the rest of the week or you’ll be sorry.”

Romilda backed away, hands up, but still looking like the cat that ate the canary. “Of course, Madam Head Girl. Whatever you say.”

Ginny brushed past her, working hard to keep her emotions in check until she got out of the room. She was halfway to the door when Harry stepped in. With a small cry of relief, she ran the last few feet and launched herself at him. He wrapped his arms around her as she buried her face in his neck.

“Good morning to you, too,” he said with a laugh.

She pulled back and held out the newspaper. “Did you see this? Did you see what they did?” Her voice was shaking with rage, which made her even angrier. Was she never going to be able to just be happy when he showed up?

He glanced at the photo. “Yeah. I saw it.”

The chatter in the Great Hall had stopped and every eye in the place was on them. He dipped his head for a quick kiss. She had to wonder if he did it publicly on purpose. “Let’s go find someplace to talk,” he said.

She allowed him to guide her through the entrance hall and down the front steps toward the lake. The day was perfect. Autumn was in full bloom, with a cool breeze wafting brightly colored leaves across their path and a vivid azure sky overhead. Ginny was oblivious to it all.

When they reached the beech tree, she could hold it in no longer. Whirling out of the protective arm he’d draped across her shoulders, she shook the paper at him again. “How can they get away with this?”

He heaved a great sigh and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Ginny, I told you yesterday. They’re just trying to sell papers. You have to ignore it.”

“Ignore it? How can I ignore it? They’re telling lies about us! They’re using us!” Her voice was growing shrill and she hated how she sounded. Crossing her arms over her chest, she drew a deep breath to try to gain control.

Harry held out his hands, pleading with her to understand. “There’s nothing we can do to stop them—”

“So, I guess you two _are_ having a row, then,” said a new, but familiar voice.

“No!” they said in unison, and turned to find Ron strolling toward them.

Ginny gave him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

He grinned. “What do you think?”

She scowled. “Mum sent you.”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to give Harry a piece of her mind for making you cry.” He chuckled as Harry rolled his eyes.

Ginny punched Ron in the arm. “Don’t you dare! He didn’t make me cry. It’s all those stupid photographers and reporters. Did you see this?” She shook the paper at him.

“Yeah. Not the best shot of you. That one of Harry and Hermione was better.”

Ginny gaped at Ron’s untroubled expression.

“Ron! They accused your fiancée and your best friend of stepping out on you. Aren’t you furious?”

Ron looked at Harry. “Are you and Hermione stepping out on me?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Didn’t think so.” Ron turned back to Ginny. “See, the important people know the truth. I’m not fussed about anyone else. It’s a shame they cut me out of the picture, though. I looked pretty good that night.”

“But, Ron—” Ginny sputtered.

“You did clean up okay for a change,” Harry agreed conversationally.

“Ron—” Ginny tried again.

“Yeah, I thought my dragon hide jacket looked right sharp with that new jumper Hermione got for me. She said the blue matches my eyes.”

“Well, yeah, but the manky orange trainers kind of ruined the look, if you ask me,” Harry said.

Ginny growled and flapped her arms in frustration.

Ron looked scandalized. “Hey! Those are my Cannons shoes. I always wear them for luck the night before a match.”

“Well, they haven’t been working. Maybe you should stop.”

“WOULD YOU TWO SHUT UP?” Ginny yelled.

They looked at her, not trying very hard to keep from grinning.

She glared at them. “This isn’t funny!”

A knowing look passed between the boys.

“I know,” Ron said, “but it’s a lot easier to make fun of it than it is to be angry.”

“But they’re using us,” Ginny said, tears threatening. “And you’re not stopping them!”

“Well, sis, you’d better get used to them. They aren’t going away. In fact, it’s probably just going to get worse.”

“Worse? What do you mean?”

Ron waved his wand to set up a silencing charm so they couldn’t be overheard, then conjured a bench and pulled her down beside him. Harry leaned against the tree and looked out over the lake. She could tell he was bracing himself for something he didn’t like and that worried her.

She looked back at Ron as he started talking again. “Harry told you this in the car on the way to the train. You’re protected here at Hogwarts. They can’t get to you. But once you leave here—either on holiday or when you finish—they’re going to be all over you. You need to learn how to handle it.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to handle it. It’s my life—our lives. They can’t just take over because they want to sell papers.”

“Ginny,” Ron said, a little too gently for Ginny’s comfort. “Being with Harry—well, there are just some things you have to accept…some things that just go with the territory.”

Harry shifted restlessly. He was obviously uncomfortable with the conversation, but he didn’t comment. She had a feeling he’d discussed this with Ron and Hermione before.

“Hermione and I decided a long time ago that we would accept those things,” Ron continued. “We accept them because we’re a part of him. He’s part of us. That means we get a lot of attention that we don’t necessarily want, but, well, that’s just the way it is. What you’ve got to understand is that you’re not just Harry’s girlfriend. You’re _Harry Potter’s_ girlfriend. That makes you even more interesting to the press than me and Hermione.”

“But, it’s not fair! What if I don’t want them following me around and taking pictures and putting my life on display for the whole world? And the lies! There must be a way to stop them!”

Ron put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re right, it’s not fair. But there’s no way to stop them. They’re not doing anything illegal, and the harder you try to stop them, the worse they get.”

“But it’s wrong! I won’t do it!”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Actually,” Harry pushed off from the tree to face her. He had gone pale and his hoarse voice was just above a whisper. “ _I_ don’t have a choice. _You_ do.”

Something twigged in the back of her mind at the look in his eye, but she brushed it away and crossed her arms. “Then I choose not. I don’t want to be gossip fodder. I don’t want them—”

She stopped as Harry abruptly turned and walked toward the lake, his fists clenching at his sides. She turned to Ron in confusion.

“So you’re going to break it off, then?” he asked. “Because that’s the only way—”

She opened her eyes wide. “No! No, that’s not what I meant.”

Ron cocked his head in Harry’s direction. “Then you better go breathe some life back into him before he passes out.”

***

Harry studied the glints of light reflecting off the ripples on the lake. This must be what Hermione had been reading between the lines of Ginny’s letters. She’d warned them that Ginny might have a harder time with her sudden celebrity than any of them expected, especially after everything that had happened over the summer. Hermione had pointed out that Ginny had always been in the wings of the stage where the three of them had stood on display before the world. She’d watched from a distance as they learned to deal with it, but she’d never had the spotlight cast directly on her. Being cloistered at Hogwarts was going to make her that much more desirable to the press, the spotlight that much more intense.

Harry clenched his hands in frustration. He wasn’t going to be able to protect her from this. If she made this choice now, maybe the fury would die down before she was back out in the real world. Maybe she could have her life back before she ever really lost it.

“Harry?”

She was beside him, slipping her hand into his. He couldn’t look at her. It would be better to do the deed quickly and get it over with.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish things could be different… that this wasn’t part of my life. I understand if you don’t—”

She cut him off with a kiss. He wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. If she was going to end it with a kiss, he was going to make it one to remember.

“Oi! Get a room!”

They broke apart at Ron’s yell. Harry couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

“Harry, look at me.” She put a hand on his cheek and turned his head her way.

He drew a deep breath, waiting for the axe to fall.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—well, I hate everyone watching me all the time—” She drew a deep breath. “—but I’ll try—I’ll learn to live with it.”

He stared at her, hardly daring to believe what he’d just heard. “You’ll—you’ll learn to live with it,” he repeated as if she’d spoken a foreign language he was trying to translate. He tried again. “You’ll learn to live with it?”

“Yes, I’ll learn to live with it.” She spoke slowly, emphasizing her words. “I love you, so I’ll learn to live with it.”

As the words began to make sense, his brain began working again. “So you’re not—you aren’t going to—you’re not breaking up with me?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“ _No_!” He paused, searching her eyes. “Well, I don’t want to, but I don’t want you to be miserable, either.”

“I’d be miserable if we broke up. I’ll just have to learn to live with the other stuff.”

He studied her face. “You’re sure? It’s hard sometimes.”

She set her jaw and nodded, her eyes blazing just like the first time she had kissed him. “If you and Ron and Hermione can do it, I can, too.”

In a rush of relief, he gathered her close for another kiss.

“Hey! Some of us just ate, y’know,” Ron hollered.

Harry released her, unable to keep the smile off his face, and they headed back up the bank to the bench.

“Okay, so tell me what I’m going to need to know to deal with the vultures,” Ginny asked after she and Harry had settled themselves on a second bench he conjured.

“Best tell her the bad news first, mate,” Ron said to Harry.

Ginny looked at him, wide-eyed. “The bad news?”

Harry glared at Ron and took Ginny’s hands. “Um, yeah. Well, we’ve got at least a dozen requests for interviews for you, and a dozen more for the two of us together.”

Ginny’s mouth fell open. “Interviews? Two dozen interviews?”

“Well, we don’t have to do all of them…”

“But what would I say?” Ginny snatched her hands from Harry’s so she could wring them. “What would they ask me?”

Ron grinned broadly and leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. “I imagine the first question would be how you think Harry is in bed.”

“Ron!” Harry's face flamed and he dropped it into his hands before sneaking a look at Ginny’s reaction.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before managing to squeak in outrage, “How would I know that? I’ve never been to bed with him!”

Ron laughed at their distress. “All I’m saying is that they’re going to want to know more about your relationship with Harry than about you.”

She studied Ron for a moment, then Harry saw the wicked gleam appear in her eye and he prepared himself for the worst.

“Well, actually, we did spend some time on my bed last summer, but we didn’t really do anything. Of course, yesterday there was the Quidditch changing room and that empty classroom and—”

“Ginny, no!” Harry said as he clapped a hand over her mouth.

Ron slapped his hands over his ears. “Urgh! I don’t want to know this stuff. Wait! The Quidditch changing room?”

“Ginny, you can’t say things like that, even when you think no one’s around, because somebody is always around,” Harry said.

Ron slammed his cupped hand down on the bench next to him. Carefully closing his fist, he gave a solemn nod at their startled looks. “Just a funny looking beetle. Thought I’d take it to Hermione.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not serious…”

Ginny put a hand over her mouth. “That can’t be—McGonagall’s got enchantments up to keep out Animagi.”

Ron smiled and opened his empty hand. “Nah. It’s not Rita—this time. But that’s what we’re talking about, Ginny. You’ve got to be really careful unless you’re at home in your own bedroom. Even then, you should be sure to cast lots of protective charms.”

Harry watched her carefully as she turned the words over in her mind. She seemed to be giving herself a pep talk. This was going to be the hardest part, he realized—letting her figure it out. He could give her an idea of what to expect, offer suggestions on ways to deal with it, protect her when possible, but, in the end, she was going to have to learn to handle it herself. And that scared him. What if she eventually decided he wasn’t worth it?

“There’s a lot to learn, isn’t there?” she finally said, looking between them with a bit of fear in her face.

“Yeah, but you can do it,” Ron said.

“We’ll get Fleur up here to give you some training,” Harry said. At Ginny’s scowl, he added, “Maybe Hermione can help, too.”

“That reminds me,” Ron said, slapping his forehead. “I’m supposed to tell you about Bill and Fleur’s big announcement at Hermione’s party last night. You’re going to have to find a new publicist, Harry.”

“They made a big announcement that I need a new publicist? What, am I not paying her enough? That’s easy to fix.”

“No, it’s not that. Bill doesn’t want her to work after the baby comes.”

“Baby! Fleur’s going to have a baby?” Ginny jumped up and clapped her hands. “When?”

“In the spring. Around the beginning of May, I think.”

“I bet Mum’s already knitting bootees, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Everyone’s pretty excited.”

Harry listened to their chatter without comment. A baby. An addition to the family. Happy as he was for them, he felt a sudden stab of loneliness. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he knew that the Mirror of Erised would show him the same thing today that he’d seen when he was eleven. Yes, the Weasleys had all but adopted him and he was grateful for their love and acceptance. But having a family of his own seemed like a distant, unattainable dream—the Snitch he would never catch.

***

As they made their way back to the castle, Ginny kept sneaking worried glances at Harry. He had grown quiet since Ron’s announcement about the baby. She thought she could guess what he was thinking, but knew he wouldn’t want to talk about it. At times like this, she really wished they had a truly private place to go.

“You know how Hermione is,” Ron was saying when Ginny came back to the present. “I wouldn’t let her go to work yesterday because it was her birthday, so she thinks she has to work even longer today to catch up. I can’t convince her that the world won’t come to a screeching halt if she doesn’t personally hold it together.”

“Give it up. She’s never going to change,” Harry said as they entered the great oak front doors.

“Mr. Potter! A word, please.”

They turned to find Professor McGonagall hurrying toward them from the Great Hall.

“Hello, Professor,” Harry said. “We were just looking for you.”

“Good morning, Miss Weasley. Mr. Weasley, very nice to see you. When did you arrive?”

“Good morning, Professor," Ron replied. "I got here about an hour ago, but I need to get back. Would you mind if I used your Floo?”

“Yes, yes, go right ahead. Such nonsense at the front gates. I really need to speak to Kingsley about sending some guards.”

“Thanks, Professor. See you two later,” Ron said. With a wave, he headed up the steps.

Ginny smiled as a couple of girls on the first floor landing squealed at the sight of him. She poked Harry. “Seems like Ron has some fans, too.”

He grinned at her before turning back to McGonagall. “What can I do for you, Professor?”

She held out a letter. “Did you have anything to do with this?” 

Harry took the parchment and held it so that Ginny could read it with him.

 

> _Dear Headmistress McGonagall,_
> 
> _It has come to my attention that Hogwarts is in need of new brooms for use by first-year students in flight training and by House Quidditch team members who don’t own their own brooms. Quality Quidditch Supplies is honored to make a gift of the enclosed 20 new PowerSweeps for this purpose._
> 
> _I am pleased to be able to make such a contribution to the education and training of our young witches and wizards. Please do not hesitate to let me know if we can be of assistance in any other way._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Jonathan Quigley, Proprietor_

“Wow, this is great!” Harry said, handing the letter back to her. “Those old brooms are pathetic.”

Ginny watched him carefully. His eyes were just a bit too wide and his smile a little too broad. She could read him like a book.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed as if she was thinking the same thing. “So, you had nothing to do with this?”

“Me? Oh, no. I’ve never met Mr.—what was it?” He tilted his head to read the end of the letter. “Mr. Quigley. And I haven’t been in Quality Quidditch Supplies since the summer before my sixth year. Someone else must’ve put him onto it.”

McGonagall didn’t look like she was buying, but she didn’t argue and changed the subject. “I understand from Mr. Thomas that you have offered to help train Dennis Creevey as Seeker for the Gryffindor team.”

“Yes, Professor. I think he’ll be okay now that he’ll have a decent broom.”

McGonagall pursed her lips and looked as though she was going to say something more on the subject of brooms, but followed her original thought instead. “Mr. Thomas has requested that you be allowed to come every weekend to ensure consistent training. I find his request to be reasonable if you’re agreeable.”

Ginny had to bite her tongue and stiffen her knees to keep from jumping up and down and screaming for joy. She made a mental note to thank Dean.

“Of course,” Harry said calmly with only a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule. Should I plan to come only during practice times?”

McGonagall’s mouth twitched, but she held her stern expression. “You may come for the entire weekend, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Professor. I’ll try to work it out.”

“Well, just remember I expect to see rapid progress in Mr. Creevey’s training to justify your visits. And, of course, as Headmistress, I can’t show favoritism to any of the House teams, so I would appreciate your assisting any of the Seekers who ask.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said.

“Enjoy your visit,” McGonagall said as she moved to walk past them. She stopped suddenly and held up the letter. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not the one you need to thank.”

She nodded curtly and headed up the stairs. Ginny could hardly wait until the headmistress had turned up the second flight before throwing herself at Harry with a squeal. He caught her and spun them around.

“That’s brilliant!" she said. "I’m so sorry I complained about Quidditch practice and gave Dean such a hard time. I’m going to have to make it up to him.”

Harry laughed. “See. It pays to do the right thing, not the easy thing.”

“Yeah, but buying those brooms didn’t hurt,” Ginny said, pulling back to give him a sly look.

He shook his head solemnly. “I didn’t buy the brooms.”

She stood back and crossed her arms, giving him a patented Molly Weasley look.

He held up both hands. “I didn’t. I swear. I didn’t buy the brooms.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, you didn’t buy them. But you got Quigley to give them, didn’t you?”

“No.”

She raised one eyebrow. He looked out the front doors as if considering a way to dodge the question before finally turning back to her with a resigned expression.

“Okay. I didn’t—Fleur did.”

“Because you told her to.”

He huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Yes. But don’t tell anyone. If anyone finds out I was behind it, the deal’s off.”

“What deal?”

“He gave the brooms if I would make an appearance at the store during the Christmas shopping season. I said fine, but only if no one ever found out why.”

“Harry, you hate that kind of stuff. Why didn't you just buy the brooms and be done with it?”

“Doing it is okay when it’s for a good cause. And, besides, Fleur says I need to use my influence to get other people to do good things. She said if I help other people realize how important it is for everyone to take care of each other, that we can do a lot more good together than I can do by myself.”

As her heart swelled with pride over his need to make the world right again, Ginny gave him a speculative look. “So, I guess this means we have to go to Quidditch practice this afternoon?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

She put a hand on his chest and began gently pushing him backwards. “So, we should make the most of our free time now, right?”

His eyes lit up and he stumbled a little as he walked backward. “Yeah, I guess so.”

When she had him backed up against the door to the antechamber that the first-years used to wait for the Sorting, she glanced back over her shoulder to be sure the entrance hall was empty before lifting the latch and pushing him in.

“So, you think we might find a little privacy in here?” She closed the door behind her.

He smiled and his voice grew husky. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“So, work your magic, Harry.”

He waved his hand to lock and soundproof the door.


	5. Highs and Lows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weekend is over. Ginny returns to battling her demons and struggles through a visit from Fleur and Hermione, while Harry faces his own troubles.

Mondays were hardest.

After the emotional high of a weekend with Harry, the Monday morning lows were like great craters that became deeper and harder to scale with each passing week. That’s when Ginny sank into the pit of despair, as if Dementors were dragging her down with gnarled fingers, sucking all the happiness out of her world and binding her with the loneliness and anxiety she seemed to be able to fight only from the safety of Harry’s arms. If not for her fear that McGonagall would say he couldn’t come any more, Ginny might go willingly into the abyss, burrowing into the covers to shut out the world until he returned. As it was, the memories of her days with him were the only things that gave her strength to face the world each day. She lived for the weekends.

From the shelter of her bed curtains, she listened to her roommates scurry around getting ready for the day. They spoke in whispers, presumably so they wouldn’t wake her, but Ginny supposed it was more likely that they didn’t want her to hear what they were saying. She snuggled into her cocoon to wait them out. Breakfast would be over and she’d have to rush to make it to class on time, but the trade-off was worth it. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with their sly glances and shared smirks as they pretended to ignore her.

When they were finally gone, she willed her leaden limbs to move and pushed herself out of bed. The steamy sting of the shower did little to banish the fog in her brain. By the time she dragged herself from the water, she had only moments to throw on her clothes and cast a quick drying spell on her hair so she could yank it into a messy ponytail. She didn’t even consider cosmetic potions—she couldn’t work up the strength to care what she looked like.

Grabbing her books, she dashed down the stairs to McGonagall’s Transfiguration class six floors down (damn the woman for hanging onto her NEWT-level classes). She slammed into the seat beside Dean with less than a minute to spare.

“You look like hell,” he whispered in a gentle tone. “What’s Potter been doing to you?”

She scowled at him. “It’s not Harry’s fault. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Please pass your essays forward.” McGonagall’s voice called them back to attention.

Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth and her stomach plummeted as though she’d taken an unexpected dive on her broom. All of the air seemed to have escaped her lungs. She gave Dean a horrified look. “I forgot,” she whispered. “Oh, bloody hell, I forgot.”

The three-foot essay on the theory of the Animagus transformation had been assigned a week ago. Ginny had intended to get it done early so she wouldn’t have to work on it during Harry’s visit, but too many other things had come up—prefect’s meetings, Hogsmeade weekend planning (scheduled late this year because of reconstruction), Quidditch practice, daily and weekly reports, mountains of homework for all of her classes, and the list went on—all while she was fighting the excruciating exhaustion that seemed to fill her very pores.

With the enormity of her responsibilities, something was bound to fall through the cracks. But of all classes! McGonagall was the last teacher she wanted to irritate. Too much was riding on her ability to stay in the headmistress’s good graces. Ginny drew a couple of shaky breaths to keep herself from screaming.

Dean patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, Gin. You’ve got a lot going on. She’ll understand. Just go and talk to her.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Ginny blinked rapidly to keep the tears in check and nodded.

The class lasted an eternity and Ginny didn’t hear a word of the lecture. She thought about trying to scribble out a quick essay off the top of her head to at least have something to turn in, but decided it would be better not to waste McGonagall’s time on a half-hearted effort. Besides, Ginny couldn’t seem to put a coherent thought together anyway. By the time the bell rang, she had decided her only recourse was to throw herself on McGonagall’s mercy.

Ginny stayed in her seat until all of the other students were gone. Dean was the last one out, squeezing her shoulder as encouragement.

“Good luck,” he whispered.

She nodded as she stood, working hard to move the knot of fear from her throat. When the door closed behind him, she squared her shoulders and walked as boldly as she could to the front of the room.

“Professor? May I speak with you a moment?” She thought she did pretty well keeping the tremor from her voice.

McGonagall regarded her with a piercing stare. “I suppose you want an extension for your essay?”

Ginny dropped her eyes and shifted uncomfortably. “No, Professor. I know you don’t take late work. I—I just wanted to apologize. I meant to get it done early last week, but... other things kept coming up and I... I just forgot.”

As the silence stretched, Ginny finally had to look up.

“You have a great deal of responsibility on you, Miss Weasley.” Though her look was stern and her posture stiff as usual, McGonagall’s voice was gentle, almost motherly. Ginny swallowed hard and bit the inside of her lip to keep from breaking down. “As Head Girl, you should be setting the example for the other students, in both your academic and your personal activities. I must admit that I have a growing concern about your ability to continue at the pace you’ve set. Of course, the obvious solution is to curtail Mr. Potter’s—”

“No!” Ginny grabbed McGonagall’s hand, unable to contain her emotions any longer. “No, please! Please don’t say Harry can’t come. Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t see him. He’s the only thing keeping me sane. I’ll do anything else. Anything. Please… please…” Her voice disintegrated into wracking sobs that shook her body and echoed off the walls of the classroom.

Ginny wasn’t quite sure how she came to be sitting on a bench sobbing into McGonagall’s lap as the professor stroked her hair and whispered soothingly. When she was finally able to gather herself, she sat up and swiped at her tears with the heels of her hands. McGonagall handed her a handkerchief. Before blowing her nose on it, Ginny noted fleetingly that it was the finest linen she’d ever touched, with delicate lace on the edges and the initials “M.M.” daintily embroidered into the corner. It made her feel worse.

“I—I’m sor—sorry, Professor,” she said through the shudders that caught at her breath. “I don’t know—what came over me.”

“It’s all right, child. Sometimes the cares of the world just overwhelm us, and you have had a great many more than most to deal with this year. I think, perhaps, a day of rest will do you the most good, right now.”

Ginny nodded, then looked up, searching McGonagall’s face. “You’re not—you won’t—”

McGonagall studied her for a moment, a small crease forming between her brows. When she finally spoke, the words were gentle, but they made Ginny’s heart plummet. “I worry, Miss Weasley, that you are becoming too dependent on Mr. Potter. You can’t look to others for your sanity or your happiness. That must come from within. You’ve always been a strong young woman, but I think the burdens you have been asked to bear of late have taken their toll. Until you can come to terms with your troubles, you’ll never regain your strength.”

Ginny stood abruptly and faced McGonagall with a look of determination on her face, refusing to acknowledge the truths the headmistress was speaking. She couldn’t appear weak. “I’ll be fine, Professor. I just need some time.”

McGonagall pressed her lips together as if holding back an argument. “Well,” she said finally. “For now, you need some rest. We’ll talk later about what adjustments need to be made.” She scribbled on a scrap of parchment and handed it to Ginny. “Take this to Madam Pomfrey. She’ll give you a sleep potion. I want you to go back to your dormitory and take it straight away. I’ll let your other teachers know. If I’m not mistaken, you haven’t eaten today either, have you?”

Ginny lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“I’ll ask the house-elves to bring up a tray, then.”

Impulsively, Ginny threw her arms around the headmistress. “Thank you, Professor. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll do better.”

McGonagall surprised Ginny by returning the hug and lingering in it longer than necessary. “I know, Ginny. I know you will.”

And then it was over. McGonagall released her and stood, ramrod straight and businesslike as ever. “Now, off with you. And I want to see you in my office tomorrow evening at five.”

Ginny looked at her feet. “Yes, Professor. I’ll be there. Thank you.”

***

As she made her way quickly through the corridor, Ginny kept her head down, trying desperately to ignore the comments spoken just loudly enough for her to hear.

“Look, she’s been crying…

“Do you s’pose they broke up?”

“Maybe McGonagall finally gave her what for…”

“’Bout time…”

“I say she deserves whatever she gets…”

By the time she got to the second floor, Ginny couldn’t bear any more and dashed down the hall to the one place she’d found sanctuary since returning to Hogwarts—Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. The place held horrible memories for her, but she’d discovered that memories were sometimes easier to handle than reality. Since she and Myrtle had both been victims of Tom Riddle’s treachery, they had forged a sort of bond, and Ginny sought solace in Myrtle’s bathroom whenever the world got to be too much for her. Myrtle did her best to keep everyone out on general principle, but she made an extra effort if Ginny was visiting.

Ginny dropped her books and leaned heavily against the sink. She thought by now she should be out of tears, but the lump in her throat told her otherwise. As she drew deep breaths to calm herself, she became aware of the sound of someone crying. That in itself wasn’t unusual—Myrtle spent most of her time sobbing in the u-bend. But this was different. These sobs were muffled as if the person crying was trying to hide them. Myrtle always put on the biggest show when she had an audience.

“Myrtle?” Ginny scanned the dimly lit room for some sign of the ghost.

“It’s not me,” Myrtle’s voice whispered from inside her favorite cubicle. She poked her head through the door and pointed to a dark niche at the other end of the room. “She’s there. I can’t get her to leave.”

“Thanks, Myrtle,” Ginny murmured and made her way past the sinks that guarded the Chamber of Secrets, squinting into the darkness for the source of the sound.

The girl was huddled on the floor in the far corner of the room, knees drawn up to her chest with her forehead resting on them. The distant candlelight glinted faintly on blonde curls tumbling haphazardly down her arms and legs, effectively screening her face and house colors from view. Ginny’s heart went out to the forlorn figure. Her own troubles seemed to diminish at this girl’s obvious misery.

Ginny knelt cautiously beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Go away,” came the muffled response.

“Can I get someone for you? A friend? Or a teacher?”

The curls bobbed as the girl shook her head without raising it.

“Maybe Madam Pomfrey? She could—”

The girl raised her head, eyes brimming with tears and anger. “I said go away! I don’t need your help. Why would _you_ help _me_ anyway?”

Ginny felt as though she’d been slapped, but she couldn’t make herself walk away from someone in such obvious pain. The girl’s face was vaguely familiar—a Ravenclaw, Linda or Lisa something maybe… one of Romilda’s followers. Ginny dug deep for her Gryffindor courage.

“Because you seem to need help.”

The girl blinked at her in surprise, then turned her face toward the wall. “You probably just want to gloat… to rub it in later.”

It was Ginny’s turn to blink. “Why would I do that?”

The girl turned back and gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Why wouldn’t you? After all the things we’ve done to you?”

Ginny gave her a long, searching look as she considered her answer. “Yes, I could see where you might think that. But I do want to help… if you’ll let me.”

The girl studied Ginny, her emotional battle clearly evident behind the tears that continued to flow unchecked. After a moment, she appeared to make a decision and her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. She swiped angrily at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I—I just can’t seem to stop crying.”

Ginny placed a tentative hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Why?”

“I—I miss my mum,” the girl whispered through her sniffles. Ginny dug out McGonagall’s handkerchief, using her wand to clean it before handing it over.

“Would it help if you talked to her? We could ask Professor McGonagall if you could use her Floo.”

Several long minutes stretched before the girl spoke again. “She’s dead,” she said, her voice flat. “Death Eaters—” Her shoulders hitched and the sobs took over.

Ginny’s eyes pricked with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She moved closer and pulled the girl into a hug, the memory of the hours she’d spent consoling her mother and George flickering through her mind. Ginny felt that she had always got as much or more benefit from helping them as they did from her. She held the girl, rubbing her back and murmuring gentle words until the tears subsided.

“Come on,” Ginny said, lifting the girl to her feet. “Let’s go see if Madam Pomfrey has something that can help.”

The girl nodded and didn’t protest when Ginny kept an arm around her shoulders to help keep her upright. Ginny was relieved that classes had begun, leaving the hallways clear.

“What’s your name?” Ginny asked as they stepped onto the third floor landing and turned toward the hospital wing.

“Lisa. Lisa Turpin.”

“Hi, Lisa. I’m Ginny.”

The girl looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. She opened her mouth, then closed it and appeared to ponder her response before finally saying, “Pleased to meet you Ginny.”

Madam Pomfrey bustled over as they walked through the door. “Oh dear. You both look a fright. Where are you hurt?”

“No injuries, Madam Pomfrey,” Ginny said.  “Professor McGonagall sent me, but I think Lisa needs your attention first.”

The nurse tut-tutted as she shuffled Lisa off toward a bed. The girl cast a look over her shoulder before disappearing behind the screen. Ginny sank wearily into a chair by the door to wait her turn. Madam Pomfrey soon returned, fussing and blustering.

“Ridiculous, it is. The entire castle has gone barmy. I’ve never seen the like. In my day, we just stiffened our spines and got on with it. It’s rubbish, I say. Rubbish!”

“What’s rubbish?” Ginny asked as she handed over the note from McGonagall.

Madam Pomfrey took one look at it and shook it under Ginny’s nose. “This! This is rubbish. Sleep Potions. Invigoration Draughts. Every day, two or three students in here wanting something to make them _feel_ better. I’ve even had to put protective spells around my supply cabinets to keep out thieves. It’s rubbish! Of _course_ everyone’s sad and having nightmares. What do they expect? We’ve just been through a war! Time is the only thing that’s going to make everyone feel better. We just need to get on with it, I say.”

Ginny looked at her wide-eyed. “You’ve got two or three students a _day_ coming in for help?”

Madam Pomfrey huffed as she measured out the potion into a phial. “Sometimes more. If they keep using potions just to feel better, it’ll only make matters worse in the end. They’re going to end up addicted and then they’ll _really_ be in a pickle.”

Ginny thanked her for the potion and wandered thoughtfully through the doors to the corridor. As she walked back to Gryffindor tower, she held her head up (for the first time since her first week back at school) and really looked at the people around her. Now that she was paying attention, she realized that most of the faces she met didn’t carry the happy, innocent expressions she thought she’d been seeing. More than half of the students seemed lost in varying degrees of anger, grief and despair, their faces drawn and tired, dark circles under their eyes giving evidence of sleepless nights. A good many girls seemed to have tried heavy application of cosmetic potions to cover puffiness from crying. Those students who _were_ smiling seemed to have to work to keep the smiles on their faces, and the laughter echoing through the halls had a hollow, forced sound to it.

Ginny dragged herself into her dormitory and changed into her night dress. Before crawling into bed, she considered the sandwich and apple on the tray floating by the bed, but left it untouched. The pop of the house-elf made her jump.

“Miss Wheezy isn’t be eating.”

Ginny smiled at the tiny elf whose sad face said that even she was having a hard time dealing with the after-effects of the war. “Hi, Winky. How are you doing?”

“Winky is being very sad, Miss Wheezy. Winky misses Dobby.”

“We all miss him. I know Harry still thinks about him often.”

“Dobby loved Harry Potter. Winky is being glad if Dobby have to die, that he be dying for Harry Potter. Dobby is being glad, too. Winky knows.” The elf nodded her head solemnly. “Winky and the other elves is being glad to die to help Harry Potter, too. We is glad to be fighting in the final battle.”

Ginny swallowed hard. It would kill Harry to know the elves thought him worthy to die for. He already felt responsible for too many deaths.

“Harry wouldn’t want you to die for him. He just wants you and all of the elves to be happy.”

The elf’s face brightened. “Then Winky is being happy. Winky is still being sad for Dobby, but is being happy for Harry Potter.” She ducked her head and looked shyly up at Ginny. “Winky thinks Miss Wheezy makes Harry Potter happy.”

Ginny smiled. “I hope so. He makes me happy.”

Winky grinned then looked back at the tray. “Miss Wheezy isn’t be eating. Miss Wheezy is being sick if she doesn’t be eating.”

“I’m just not hungry right now. I’ll eat something later.”

“Winky will be having to tell Headmistress. Maybe Miss Wheezy can be drinking the Pumpkin Juice?”

At the hopeful look in the Winky’s eyes, Ginny pushed up on her elbow and drained the glass. She picked up the apple and set it on her bedside table. “Maybe I’ll save this for later.”

Winky gave her a grateful grin. “That is being good, Miss Wheezy. Winky is be going back to the kitchen now so Miss Wheezy can be sleeping.”

“Thank you, Winky.”

As the elf popped away, Ginny picked up the potion phial from her night table and closed her bed curtains. She turned the phial over and over in her fingers as she thought about the discovery she’d made—she wasn’t the only one struggling with inner demons. She’d been so wrapped up in her own grief and anger—having a smashing pity party, if truth be told—that she hadn’t bothered to notice that others were in the same situation. But if half the school was having problems getting over the war, shouldn’t someone be doing something about it?

The door opened. Ginny grew still at the sound of Parvati’s voice.

“I heard that she left McGonagall’s classroom in tears. Do you s’pose the old bat finally called her down for giving so many detentions?”

“Don’t call McGonagall an old bat. I like her. And I don’t think she could get mad at Ginny Weasley if she tried,” Lavender said with a surprising lack of sarcasm.

“Yeah, right. I forgot. Merlin forbid that Potter’s princess should get into trouble.”

Ginny scooted further under the covers to keep her breathing from being heard. She could hear them rattling cosmetic potion bottles and shuffling books and papers.

“So why do you suppose she was crying?” Parvati asked.

“I dunno. Maybe she’s just tired like the rest of us. You know she has nightmares nearly every night. I could hear her thrashing about last night. I don’t think she slept at all.”

Ginny made a mental note to start putting a silencing charm on her bed. She was surprised that Lavender sounded almost concerned.

“I think she’s lonely, too,” Lavender’s voice continued. “You know, with all of her brothers gone and she doesn’t seem to have too many friends anymore…”

Parvati snorted. “Well, of course she doesn’t. None of us are good enough for her, are we? She’s the one riding her high horse these days, just because she’s going to be _Mrs. Harry Potte_ r.” The sneer in her voice came through loud and clear. “I mean, look at her, Lavender. She goes around looking like she’s going to hex the next person who crosses her path. I bet her face would crack if she tried to smile when his highness wasn’t around. I hope he finds her out before it’s too late. But, who knows, maybe he’s just as bad. They’re probably a matched set.”

“You’re still cheesed off because he chucked us from her party last summer.”

The only sound for a couple of moments was the stroke of a brush through hair.

“Well, I just wish she’d stop collecting all the good ones if she’s not going to use them,” Parvati finally said.

“I know.” Lavender’s voice was wistful.

“At least Seamus isn’t drooling all over her the way Dean is. Did you see him this morning? I tried to sit next to him, but noooo. He was saving the seat for Ginny. I thought he was going to put his arm around her right in the middle of class. He kept looking at her like he thought she was going to melt or something.”

Had Dean really been watching her like that?

“Melt _down_ , more like.”

That sounded more like the Lavender she knew.

“Yeah, well, if she’s not going to use them, she should cut them loose so the rest of us can have a chance.”

“You’d think he’d have got the message at King’s Cross.”

“That _was_ pretty cold, wasn’t it?” Parvati sounded furious. “The way she strung him along all summer, he thought he had it made. Then, wham! She dumps him for Wonder Boy with that public display of indecency on the platform right in front of the press so the whole world could see. How humiliating!”

Ginny’s insides turned to ice. Was that how everyone saw it? Was that how _Dean_ saw it? No! Dean had told her he understood. Did he really? Dear Merlin, what had she done?

Their voices were shut off by the closing door. Ginny started to breathe again. She twisted the cap off the phial and downed its contents in one gulp. Suddenly Monday had become too hard to bear.

***

Harry always had to laugh at the sight of Teddy scooting at top speed on his tummy across the floor. Once his godson figured out how to coordinate himself on hands and knees, they’d never catch him.

It was all part of the latest version of their Wednesday evening greeting game. Andromeda would put Teddy on the floor across the room before she let Harry in. Then, Harry would race to remove his jacket as Teddy made a beeline for him, grunting a steady rhythm—“ha-ha-ha-ha”—the whole way. (Harry had to fight tears when Andromeda told him she thought that was Teddy’s version of Harry’s name and that under different circumstances it might have been “da-da-da-da.”) Almost always before Harry could get his jacket onto the peg, Teddy would be pulling on his trouser leg, begging to be picked up. Teddy would squeal with delight as Harry swooped him high into the air then settled him on his hip.

“No, no, no,” Harry would say with a grin, capturing the baby’s hand as it made a grab for his glasses. “Too quick for you, mate.”

Teddy would giggle, then rest his head on Harry’s shoulder and pat him on the chest, quietly murmuring, “Ha-ha-ha-ha.” Harry would put his cheek on the soft fuzz of hair (always by now the special shade of green Teddy saved just for Harry) and breathe in the soft scent of baby and warm milk. More than once, Harry had seen Andromeda dab her eyes as she watched them. But the tableau never lasted more than a moment because Teddy was soon bouncing up and down in Harry’s arms, ready to get started on their weekly adventures.

Harry was fascinated at how quickly Teddy was growing and changing from week to week. At five months, Teddy was trying hard to crawl as well as rapidly discovering his Metamorphagus abilities. Like his mother, Teddy had been able to change the color of his hair almost from birth, but Andromeda said it would be no time at all until he could control changes to his facial features and body as well. He had already managed to make his nose look like the cat’s once, although it took nearly a week for it to go back to normal.

His time with Teddy was sacred to Harry. The bond he had formed with his godson made him more determined than ever that Teddy wouldn’t grow up as Harry had, feeling unloved and unwanted. Yes, Teddy had the advantage of a loving grandmother, but Harry had also yearned for a father figure in his life, and if there was a chance he could provide that for Teddy, he was going to give it his best shot.

Andromeda had become so comfortable with Harry’s ability to care for Teddy that she would usually take the opportunity for an evening to herself, leaving the two of them to play on their own. More often than not, she would come home to find them either giggling helplessly at some silly game that Harry had made up for them or worn out and dozing together in the armchair by the fire.

Once Teddy was tucked in for the night, Harry usually Apparated into London. Rather than staying cooped up with the bad memories in Sirius’s house when he had nothing else to do in the evenings, he had taken to wandering the streets in the Muggle parts of town. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket with a cap pulled low over his face, he savored the freedom and anonymity he found by losing himself in the non-magical world. As he walked, he often thought about how he now found his life falling into a comfortable rhythm.

Weekdays he spent in Auror training. Robards stayed on his case, but Harry didn’t mind. He preferred not to receive special treatment and could tell the added pressure was paying off—he was becoming stronger, both physically and magically. Daphne was also on his case, but avoiding her was helping to hone his observation skills and forcing him to learn how to think more quickly on his feet.

At least one evening a week, he would have supper at the Burrow. Other nights he would go out for dinner with Ron and Hermione, then spend the remainder of the evening visiting at her flat (or rather, their flat—he suspected Ron was staying there almost full-time now, too).

Of course, there were also the Ministry dinners. Every couple of weeks, Harry was asked to attend a dinner or ceremony held in honor of a visiting foreign minister or dignitary. Although Shacklebolt assured him he was an important part of the proceedings, Harry felt he had no purpose at these events, that he might as well be part of the decorations while the ministers made small talk and danced diplomatically around touchy issues rather than getting to the point. By the time they were ready to begin the real discussions, Harry and the other guests would be excused. Right after the war, Harry hadn't minded so much being paraded around like a victory trophy—or maybe he hadn't had the will the fight it—but now the long, boring events had become tiresome and irritating. He often wondered if a life-sized Harry Potter action figure, like the miniatures sold at Weasleys’s against his protests, wouldn't serve the same purpose.

In spite of this one annoyance, Harry enjoyed most of his weekly activities. But, in the end, they were trivial, just the means to get him to the weekend.

He lived for his weekends with Ginny.

Their time together wasn’t ideal, given the circumstances. Privacy had always been a fleeting thing at Hogwarts, and the Fan Club seemed to have made it their mission to be sure he and Ginny had as little of it as possible, so they hadn’t had a chance to repeat the intimate scenes of that first weekend. But Harry wasn’t too fussed about it. He didn’t want their first time to be a rushed tumble on the floor in an empty classroom. Ginny seemed impatient to get there, but he wanted to wait until they had time to make it special, memorable. So, for the most part, he was happy to just snuggle on the common room sofa, to be able to talk to her, touch her, breathe the scent of her. Those two days got him through the rest of the week.

Life was good. He was happier and more content than he could ever remember being.

And it scared him witless.

Even if he could figure out how to relax and enjoy a peaceful life, he didn’t really believe it would last. When he was little, he had learned to keep up his guard against the Dursleys. Then from the time he was eleven, he’d had the constant threat of danger and an unfulfilled prophecy hanging over his head. And now, in spite of the fact that he’d done what he was meant to do and the world around him was returning to normal, the familiar knot of fear still rested in the pit of his stomach. It had always been there, and probably always would be. He found it almost comforting. He knew it would serve him well as an Auror, but he wondered how much it would interfere with the rest of his life.

Especially when it came to Ginny.

She was the most wonderful thing ever to happen to him. He felt more relaxed, more himself with her than anywhere else, even when he was alone. She filled an empty place in him like nothing else could, and their time together seemed like something stolen from someone else’s life—which was exactly why he expected it to end at any moment. Everyone he’d ever cared about had been taken from him and he couldn’t shake the nagging dread that something would happen to her or she would come to her senses and walk away.

Even though she put on a good act, he knew she was still bothered by the stories in the newspapers and magazines—either about the two of them or about him and someone else—not to mention the non-stop attention she was still getting from the other students. Every weekend he half expected her to tell him he wasn’t worth the trouble and ask him not to come back.  

Hermione had scolded him when he’d confessed his fears. “Harry, don’t go looking for trouble. You’re long overdue for some happiness. Just relax and enjoy it.”

“I don’t usually have to _look_ for trouble. Trouble finds me, remember?” he had said, shoving his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes. “I’ve never gone this long without something bad happening. I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

She had put her hands on his shoulders and given him her familiar listen-to-me-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about look. “Harry, listen to me. The bad times are over. It’s all behind you now. Ginny loves you. Relax. Be happy.”

On one level, he knew she was right. But he couldn’t relax and accept it—experience was a powerful teacher. So he stuffed his misgivings inside and put on a happy face, just to keep everyone around him from worrying. He had learned at a young age to make the most of what little happiness came his way, so he decided to take Hermione’s advice and enjoy it…at least while he could.

Harry shook himself from his musings and dodged between two cars to cross the street. Most evenings he could walk for hours with no one paying him any mind. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those nights.

He cast a sideways glance into the darkened window of the shop he was passing to see if the hooded figure was still following him. This was the third time he’d noticed someone on his tail during his evening walk. Always wearing Muggle clothing with a hood, the figure stayed far enough back that Harry couldn’t get a good look at his face, but he didn’t seem to pose a threat. The two previous times, Harry had simply Apparated back home and decided it must have been his imagination. Tonight he planned to get to the bottom of things.

Stopping in front of a lighted display in the middle of a row of shops, Harry pretended great interest in the array of tellys and video games, but was actually watching his stalker in the reflection of the window. The figure, still across the street, hesitated only briefly when Harry stopped, then kept walking and turned the next corner. Harry waited a few moments, shifting his position so he could see the corner in the reflection. When he saw a movement at the edge of the building, he began walking the opposite direction. At the next corner, he turned, then stepped immediately into the nearest alley and ducked behind an oversized bin. He threw his Invisibility Cloak over himself and waited.

Within minutes, hurried footsteps stopped abruptly as they came even with the alley.

“Damn! Where did he go?”

Harry froze. He knew that voice. How did he know that voice? Before he could react, he heard more footsteps running from the direction he had come. The hooded figure glanced over his shoulder and took off. As Harry stepped from behind the bin to follow, two cloaked figures, wands drawn, bowled around the corner and skidded to a halt. Harry flattened himself against the wall as they came into the alley and looked behind the bin.

“Not here. Let’s go!” one of the figures said.

“Wait! Let’s see if anyone’s hiding in here,” said the other as he stuck his wand into the bin and blasted it with a curse that sent garbage flying into every corner of the space between the two buildings.

The remains of someone’s supper (from several days ago, judging from the smell) landed on top of Harry’s head, giving away his invisible form. He dived to the ground, barely dodging the Stunner that exploded into the brick behind where he’d just been standing.

“Don’t kill him, you fool! We need him alive,” shouted the other wizard.

Tangled in his cloak, Harry rolled away from the binding spell that hit the ground beside him and struggled to free his arms. But before he could raise his wand, one of the wizards was hit from behind with a Stunner. The other one quickly Disapparated.

Harry kept his wand trained on the silhouettes framed in the alley opening.

“All right, Potter?”

Harry lowered his wand with a sigh of relief at the sound of a familiar voice. “Yeah.”

The two veteran Aurors—Johnson and Biggerstaff—had been on bodyguard detail with Harry, Ron, and Hermione right after the war. Harry’s initial sense of relief evaporated in a flash of irritation as he realized the only possible reason for the timely appearance of the two. He eyed them warily.

“Good thing you two were in the neighborhood,” he said carefully. Their quick glance toward each other confirmed his suspicions.

“Yeah, good thing,” said Johnson.

Harry tamped down his anger—they were just following orders and they had just got him out of a jam. But he’d be having a word with the Minister about misuse of Ministry resources.

“So why were they after you?”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “We hadn’t got to that part of the conversation yet.”

“Well, let’s get ’im back to headquarters and see what he’s got to say,” Johnson said. “You’ll have to come file a report.”

Harry picked up his Invisibility Cloak and grimaced as moldy shepherd’s pie oozed between his fingers. “I’m right behind you,” he said.

The Aurors were laughing as they disappeared.

***

Ginny hated the wizarding press more than she could ever remember hating anything in her life besides Voldemort and Dolores Umbridge—and the press was giving Umbridge a serious run for the number two spot.

It had started third year when Rita Skeeter had printed such horrible things about Harry and Hermione during the Triwizard Tournament. Fourth year, even though Hermione had put a lid on Skeeter (literally, for a while), Ginny had seethed as the _Prophet_ continued to slander Harry and Dumbledore until they were proven right about Voldemort’s return. Then last summer, she had become disgusted with the lot of them and their pictures of Harry with a different new “love interest” each day, not to mention what they’d done to her over the Greyback incident.

So, now that Ginny found herself the latest and most prized target of the wizarding press, she’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than give any of them a two-finger salute, much less an interview. And the fact that she had to learn how to handle it all from Fleur was just the icing on the cake.

But she’d promised Harry.

It had taken several weeks to schedule the session, mostly because Ginny had refused to meet with Fleur alone and Hermione hadn’t been available until now. But even with Hermione coming to mediate, this evening had disaster written all over it.

Ginny had accepted Fleur as part of the family because Bill loved her, but she had never warmed up to her sister-in-law and secretly still thought of her as “Phlegm.” Fleur’s superior attitude was irritating beyond measure, and, in Ginny’s estimation, an evening under her instruction would be about as much fun as bathing in Bubotuber pus.

Ginny stood reluctantly before the door of the classroom McGonagall had said they could use. Reminding herself once more that she was doing this for Harry, she squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

“Ginny! There you are. You are late!” Fleur looked put out.

Ginny ground her teeth and bit back what she really wanted to say. “Sorry,” she muttered tightly as she returned Hermione’s hug. “I was revising. Lost track of the time.”

“Well, come, come. We must get started. We ’aven’t much time,” Fleur said, gesturing for Ginny to sit in one of the two chairs she’d positioned at the front of the room in front of a couple of magical spotlights.

Ginny squirmed under the blinding glare. “Do those things have to be so bright?”

“We must practice under the same condi— _mon, dieu_! What ’ave you done to yourself? This will never do!”

“What’s wrong?” Ginny raised a hand to her hair in alarm. She knew she hadn’t taken much time with herself this morning, but she didn’t think she looked any worse than usual.

Fleur rolled her eyes and flicked her wand, conjuring a full-length mirror. “There! See? You are so pale, and your eyes look bruised. Why ’ave you not used the cosmetics? Look at your ’air. It is a mess, so limp and dull. When ’ave you washed it last? And ’ave you not eaten properly since you came to school? You are thin as a broomstick! What are you thinking, going about looking like this?”

Fleur’s insults were bad enough, but the fact that she was right was even worse. Angered beyond reason, Ginny jumped to her feet and shoved the mirror to the floor, shattering it. “I don’t have _time_ to bother with all that stuff during the week. Do you _know_ what my time table is like?”

“Ginny, Fleur, please—” Hermione vanished the shards of mirror as she tried to step between them.

Fleur deftly sidestepped Hermione, put her hands on her hips, and advanced on Ginny with a glare. “Do you know what the press will do if they see you like this? Your photograph will be on the cover of every publication in the wizarding world. They _live_ to take pictures of people looking their worst.”

Eyes flashing, Ginny stood her ground until she and Fleur were nose-to-nose. “I’m _not_ going to put up with this. You’re not going to tell me how to live my life. _They’re_ not going to run my life.” She threw up her hands and turned toward the door. “I knew this wasn’t going to work—”

“Ginny, wait,” Hermione said grabbing her arm with a pleading look. “Wait, please. I know that’s not what you want to hear. And we (she gave Fleur a pointed look) probably didn’t start off on the right foot, but you need to do this. You promised Harry.”

Hermione wasn’t known as the brightest witch of her age for nothing—that was the only argument that could possibly keep Ginny in the room at this moment. Closing her eyes again, Ginny drew several deep breaths to calm her anger.

Hermione jumped into the pause. “It’s true about needing to pay attention to your looks. You know I’ve never been one to bother much with hair and makeup, but I always try to make sure I look decent now if I’m going to be where anyone can see me, even if it’s in my own garden. I stepped outside to bin the rubbish one morning after I’d been cleaning and they got me in my ratty clothes with my hair in a knot. I couldn’t believe it was front-page news. They said I was wasting away because Ron had dumped me.” She put a comforting hand on Ginny’s shoulder and dropped her voice to nearly a whisper. “She doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just her way. I know it’s not fair and you don’t want to do this, but she really can help. She trained Harry and Ron and me. Give her a chance.”

When Ginny just glared at the floor and chewed her lip, Hermione added, “Please? For Harry?”

Ginny gave Hermione a long look then finally huffed out a breath and nodded reluctantly. “All right. For Harry.” Turning to face Fleur, who was standing with arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot, Ginny added, “But no more comments about my looks. I just don’t have it in me tonight.”

Fleur threw up her hands and let loose a tirade of French that couldn’t possibly be mistaken for pleasantries. Ginny appealed to Hermione. “Why do I have to be the only one on good behavior?”

Hermione gave a growl of frustration. “Fleur!”

When Fleur stopped in mid-syllable, Hermione continued, “Can we start over, please?”

Fleur sank into a chair folded her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and began to breathe deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth. After a moment, she opened her eyes and stood.

“My apologies. I did not mean to be unkind. I think it is the ’ormones and the late hour. I do not do so well at the end of the day.”

Ginny blinked. “Hormones?”

“The baby,” Hermione said quickly turning a brilliant shade of pink. “Pregnancy changes—erm—more than your body.”

Ginny cocked her head in surprise. It was unusual to see Hermione embarrassed by any topic. But, she’d also forgot about the baby since Fleur didn’t look noticeably different—perhaps a bit pale and a little softer around the edges if you knew what to look for, but nothing that called attention to her condition.

“Can you feel it?” Ginny asked, her anger dissipating as her curiosity got the better of her.

Fleur smiled a bit and wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach. “Sometimes, when I am very still at night, I think I can feel flutters, like a little fairy flitting around. Molly says it is too early, but _Maman_ says Veela babies are different.”

Ginny frowned a bit. She knew how babies were made, but she’d never really been around anyone who was pregnant. Beyond knowing how things got started, the process was a complete mystery to her.

“What did you mean about the hormones? What do they do to you?”

Fleur seemed unusually patient. Perhaps it was the extra attention. Or the hormones.

“Mostly, I am tired. And I ’ave been emotional—the mood swings are ’orrible, poor Bill. But I am lucky that I ’ave not been sick. Some women throw up for the first few months, but I ’ave not ’ad to bother with that.”

“Sounds terrible,” Ginny said with a shudder. “Why would anyone want to get pregnant?”

“Ah,” said Fleur taking on an almost magical glow. “It is worth it, no? To know that I ’ave a little person growing in me that Bill and I ’ave created from our love for one another?”

The dreamy quality of Fleur’s voice took Ginny by surprise. She’d never heard Fleur sound anything but arrogant and demanding, which always made Ginny wonder what Bill could possibly see in her. This must be it—this must be the side of Fleur that Bill had seen and fallen in love with. Ginny was fascinated.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“ _Non_. There is a test, but it is too soon for that. We ’ave not decided yet whether we will find out. Bill wants to be surprised, but I would rather know so I can prepare the nursery. But enough of this for now. Come. We must get started.” Fleur slipped easily back into her business demeanor, though she seemed less aloof.

Ginny studied her for a moment, debating the best course of action. She’d just seen a different Fleur who could be reasonable and almost pleasant. This might work. And she’d promised Harry…

As Ginny settled uneasily back into the empty chair, Hermione moved into the shadows again and Fleur began.

“I will not lecture much, but to say that you must take care of yourself, Ginny. The camera, it is not kind. Eat properly, sleep well, attend to your grooming or they will destroy you. You are a beautiful young woman. You must show them that at all times.”

Ginny scowled, but nodded her understanding.

“Now, for the interviews. You must always tell the truth. Never, ever lie to them—they will find out.”

“Always tell the truth. Never lie,” Ginny parroted.

“But in telling the truth, you do not have to tell them everything. Choose what you want them to know. Give them enough to satisfy, but not more than they ask.”

“Don’t tell them everything,” Ginny said mechanically. This was going to be easy.

“Most reporters are good people who wish to show you respect, but they will sometimes try to trick you into giving away more information than you want to give. Then there are those few who wish to—what is the phrase?—make a name for themselves at your expense.”

“Like Rita Skeeter.”

“Yes, Skeeter is one of them.”

“So why bother with them? They’re just going to write what they want to anyway. Look what they do to Harry all the time.”

“If you anger them, it only makes matters worse. If you do not give them the story, they will get enough of the truth to make it believable and fill in the details on their own. It is best to talk with them so you control the information they receive, yes?”

Ginny shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why are they allowed to get away with that? Can’t the Ministry do something?”

Hermione spoke from the darkness beyond the spotlights. “We don’t want the Ministry to control the press, Ginny. They did that last year, remember? A free press is best, even if you have to put up with a few who take advantage of the system.”

Ginny scowled. “It’s still not right.”

“No, it isn’t. That is why we must teach you ’ow to ’andle an interview. The most important thing is to listen carefully to the question and take your time to answer. Do not let them trick you.”

Ginny sighed. “Take my time. Don’t let them trick me. Got it.”

“Now, let us try a practice interview. I will be the reporter. You answer my questions. When we ’ave finished, we will talk about what you should do differently.”

Ginny sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Tell me, ’ow did you meet ’Arry?”

Ginny thought about the question for a moment, but couldn’t see any trick in it. She shrugged. “Well, we first met on the platform at King’s Cross station when he was starting Hogwarts. He asked my mum to show him how to get onto Platform 9¾.” She paused uncertainly. “Is that enough?”

Fleur nodded. “So you were very young when you met ’im?”

“Oh, yes. I was ten and he was eleven.”

Ginny paused a moment and when Fleur didn’t respond, she continued, “I didn’t really get to talk to him that time. It wasn’t until he came to stay at our house the next summer than I got to spend any time around him.”

Ginny began to relax a bit. This wasn’t so hard.

“So ’Arry would stay at your ’ouse?”

“Well, he was my brother Ron’s best mate, you know. He usually came for several weeks during the summers. That’s when I really got to know him.”

Fleur just watched her patiently. Ginny fidgeted a moment before beginning again. “Hermione would come, too, and the four of us would play games and just hang around in the garden or the orchard together.”

Fleur didn’t respond.

Ginny was confused by the lack of questions, and searched her mind for something to say to fill the gap. “Harry was always so nice to me. I had the biggest crush on him—”

“Ah, so ’Arry fell in love with you that first summer?” Fleur interjected.

“No!” Ginny answered quickly. “We were friends. Just friends for years. I was just Ron’s little sister. I mean, Harry and I didn’t date until my fifth year and then he broke up with me before he left to go find—”

“You dated during your fifth year? So, you were very young the first time you made love, yes? Is ’e a good lover?”

“What?” Ginny spluttered, her face flaming. “No—we didn’t—”

“No? ’E is not a good lover? Such a shame. Is that zat why you turned to Dean Thomas?”

“Turned to Dean? Wait! I didn’t—”

“’As ’Arry forgiven you your dalliance with Mr. Thomas?”

“Forgiven me? No! Wait! You don’t—”

“No? So, ’e is over with you?”

Ginny sprang to her feet. “Stop! Just stop!” She couldn’t believe how quickly the mood of the session had changed.

Fleur stood, her voice gentle but firm. “Sit down, Ginny. We must discuss the mistakes and practice ’ow to improve—”

“No! This is madness!”

Hermione emerged from the shadows to put a comforting arm on Ginny’s shoulders. “Calm down, Ginny. It’s okay.”

“Calm down? How can I calm down?” Ginny threw off Hermione’s arm and quivered with rage. “This is mental. I’m not doing this!”

“Ginny, it’s just an exercise to get you used to hearing those kinds of questions. It’s better to do it here with us than to run into it the first time in a real interview.”

“Well, I’m not going to have to worry about it, because I’m not going to do any interviews. I’m not going to give them a chance to twist my words and make me look like a fool. I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

Before she lost complete control, Ginny turned and fled from the room, ignoring Fleur’s angry incoherent babbling and Hermione’s pleas to come back. She ran all the way to Gryffindor Tower and didn’t stop until she’d closed the bed curtains around her. When Hermione parted the curtains, Ginny curled into a ball, breathing hard to keep the tears at bay.

“Ginny? What’s wrong? This isn’t like you.” After a moment of silence broken only by strangled sobs that could no longer be contained, Hermione placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke more gently. “Ginny, please. Talk to me.”

Ginny struggled to speak through her tears. “I can’t—do it—Hermione. I—just—can’t do it.”

Hermione settled on the bed and waited patiently, stroking Ginny’s arm until her breathing calmed to the occasional sniffle.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

Ginny sat up and drew a shuddering breath as she rubbed her face with her hands. “I just can’t seem to do anything anymore without crying,” she said finally and with a bitter laugh added, “I broke down in front of McGonagall on Monday. Can you believe it? I just completely lost it in front of the headmistress.”

“But why?” Hermione asked with a crease of worry dipping between her brows. “Is it still Greyback?”

Ginny frowned at the bedcovers. “Partly. I’m still having nightmares. But it’s all the other stuff, too. You know how everyone treated Harry during his fifth year?” She looked up to see Hermione nod, and suddenly Ginny couldn’t hold her words in check any longer. “That’s the way it is for me this year. And then there are Head Girl duties and NEWT classes and homework and missing Harry and missing Fred and missing you and Ron and Mum and Dad and George and—I don’t know. I just feel so tired all the time. Most days I just want to go to bed and never get up. Not that I sleep much when I’m here, but at least I don’t have to face the world. It’s all I can do just to slog through each day to get to the weekend so I can see Harry. He’s the only thing that keeps me going. If—”

Ginny stopped abruptly, surprised that she’d given so much away. She turned her head away and swallowed hard at the knot that had formed in her throat.

“If what?” Hermione prodded gently.

Ginny looked at her with something close to panic in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “If he couldn’t come anymore, if something happened to him, I—I don’t know what I’d do.”

“But why wouldn’t he come? What do you think is going to happen to him?”

Ginny swiped at her eyes. “Damn it! Why can’t I quit crying? I hate this!” She took a moment to gather herself, then looked at Hermione. “If he got hurt, or some escaped Death Eater came after him. I know it sounds stupid, but I just worry about him. ”

“Ginny, he’s training to be an Auror. He’s going to be in dangerous situations—a lot. But you already know he can take care of himself.”

“I know. I know. But I can’t help it. And now McGonagall thinks I’m becoming too dependent on him. I forgot to do an essay and she said she thinks I’m taking on too much and ‘perhaps we should curtail Mr. Potter’s visits’,” Ginny said in a perfect imitation of the headmistress.

“She’s not going to, is she?”

“No. At least not after I went mental,” Ginny said with a wry grin, explaining about the sleeping potion. “When I went to see her Tuesday afternoon, she suggested I delegate a bit more to the prefects, but she said if I miss any more homework she’s going to rethink her decision.”

“Did you tell Harry?”

“NO! And you shouldn’t either. Please don’t tell him. He doesn’t need anything else to worry about right now.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and looked as though she was sorting through a complex problem. After a moment, she took Ginny’s hands in hers and gave her a compassionate look. “I know you’re having a hard year. Given everything you’ve been through this year, well more than a year now, it’s not surprising that you’re having problems. In fact, what you describe—the crying and the exhaustion—it sounds a lot like what the Muggles call clinical depression. There are things that Mind Healers can do—”

Ginny pulled her hands free and scooted back on the bed. “No, I’ll be fine. I just need some time.”

“But, Ginny—”

“No, Hermione! I can’t. Can you imagine what the press would do with that? I can see the headlines now—‘Harry Potter’s Girlfriend Ready for Thickey Ward.’ I can handle this. I just need some time. Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone.”

Hermione frowned at her hands for a moment, and then raised her eyes with a determined look. “All right. I won’t say anything... for now. But you have to promise me you’ll get help if things aren’t better in a couple of weeks. This has been going on long enough.”

“Hermione, I’ll be fine.”

“I mean it,” Hermione said sternly. “You need to take care of yourself, too. Fleur’s right about not letting the photographers catch you looking like this. Promise?”

Ginny rolled her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. “All right. I promise.”


	6. Territory Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being apart during the week is hard, but when outside forces intervene, things turn ugly.

Ginny sat cross-legged beneath the beech tree beside the lake. October had been the soggiest in years, but this was one of those rare warm glorious autumn days with a sky so smooth and vivid it seemed as though nature had created a brand new colour that couldn’t even be called blue anymore. With an extra free hour before her next class, she had escaped the noisy lunchtime confines of the Great Hall to soak up some sun and work through her tangled thoughts.

It had been a long week, although she had virtually slept through Monday. By Tuesday she had felt a bit more rested, but the crushing sadness that sapped her energy had abated only a little.

Then last night had brought Fleur. The debacle of a training session had thoroughly convinced Ginny that the last thing she needed to do was give any interviews—at least until she had better control of her emotions. Pushing the memory from her mind with a shudder, she hoped Harry wouldn’t be too disappointed in her, but she had enough to handle right now without looking for trouble.

And one of those things was the cloud of grief and depression permeating the school. Since she’d realized on Monday that she wasn’t the only one struggling with the after-effects of the war, she had been wracking her brain for some way to relieve the collective suffering. Madam Pomfrey had already made clear her feelings on the matter. Ginny wondered if Hermione might have any ideas. Or maybe she should talk to Harry…

She looked down at his letter again. For the most part, it was a typical Harry letter, chatty and not terribly romantic, although he always said how much he missed her and signed it “Love, Harry.” But something about one part bothered her. At the end of his description of Teddy’s latest antics, he’d included a cryptic remark:  _Had a run-in with a couple of wizards in an alley last night. We’re sorting through it. No harm done._

What kind of run-in? What was he doing in an alley? Who’s sorting it out? She growled in frustration. If he wasn’t going to give her any more information than that, she almost wished he wouldn’t say anything at all. It only fed her irrational worry for him.

“Hi, Ginny. Mind if I sit with you?”

Ginny stuffed the letter into her bag before turning to smile at Dean. “Not a bit.”

She watched him fold his lanky limbs to sit, then stretch out on the grass next to her. Parvati’s words from Monday rolled around in her head. Had she really hurt him at King’s Cross? She’d been fretting about whether or not to talk to him, but hadn’t been able to decide how to bring it up. Here was her chance, but she hesitated, not wanting to make matters worse. Perhaps a different approach was best…

“Dean, why do you spend all your time with me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

He looked at her in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I? Don’t you want me to?”

“Well, of course I want you to,” she said, then turned to look out over the lake. “But I just thought you might, you know, want to find another girl to be friends with. You know, maybe a girlfriend.”

She watched out of the corner of her eye as Dean picked up a small twig and chewed it thoughtfully. “Nah. Can’t think of anyone I want to bother with.”

They sat quietly, watching as the giant squid bobbed into view for a moment in the middle of the lake.

“Well, I know some who would like to bother with you.”

He threw the twig into the lake and laced his fingers behind his head. “Yeah, I know.”

Ginny pulled at the grass by her feet. He wasn’t making this easy. Should she ask him outright? Should she just let it go? She drew in a deep breath and plunged in.

“Dean, you’re not—I didn’t—” She stopped, unable to make the words come out.

“I know you’re with Potter, Ginny. It’s okay.”

She turned to face him, so she could see his eyes, see his response to her words. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” he said quietly, looking at her for just a moment before turning his eyes up to the leaves overhead. “It’s not your fault.”

Ginny dropped her face into her hands and suddenly couldn’t stop the words any longer. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you—to humiliate you at King’s Cross. That whole thing with Harry—it just happened. I didn’t think—”

Dean pushed up on his elbows. “Humiliate me? Who said you humiliated me?”

Ginny looked up in surprise. “I overheard Lavender and Parvati talking. They said the way I dumped you for Harry at King’s Cross was cold and humiliating.”

Dean snorted. “And you listen to those silly bints? Come on, Ginny. You know better than that. I told you last summer I knew what I was getting into. I asked you to be straight with me and you have been. You’ve never led me on. I wasn’t humiliated at King’s Cross. I was happy for you.” He looked back out over the lake. “Not so happy for me, but happy for you.”

“But I want you to be happy for yourself, too. You deserve to be happy—to find someone—”

Dean shrugged. “What have I got to offer? I’m piss-poor and if I go into the Auror program it’ll be three years before I’m through with school. I just don’t see the point in getting involved with anyone now.”

“Harry’s in the Auror program and he’s involved with someone.”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen what it does to you when he’s out saving the world. I don’t think I’m ready to do that to someone yet. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Ginny gave a sharp laugh. “Harry’s been saving the world since he was eleven. I’m used to it.”

“Maybe so, but you still worry yourself sick about him.” He laced his fingers behind his head and lay back onto the lawn.

Ginny scowled down at the grass. She knew Dean was right, but she didn’t want to think about it right now. The comment in Harry’s letter was too fresh and she hadn’t completely sorted out her feelings about how much she wanted—needed—to know about his Auror activities. Would it be better to know everything and worry? Or would she be better off ignorant, imagining him behind a desk every day until someone came to tell her that he’d been injured or killed? She shivered and turned the conversation back to Dean.

“So I guess you’re not interested in Parvati?” Ginny couldn’t help dissolving into a fit of giggles at the look of horror on Dean’s face.

“You’re _not_ serious?” he asked. “I’d rather date the giant squid. Is that what all this is about?”

Ginny nodded as she tried to catch her breath. “I think her exact words were that I should ‘cut you loose so someone else could have a chance.’”

Dean said a rude word as he pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand to help her up. “She’s the last one who would have a chance. No way I’d date her after the way she’s been treating you.”

“Dean, it’s okay—”

“No, it’s not,” he said with a hard look. “I wouldn’t date any girl who could be that cruel to anyone. Can you imagine what she would be like after a few years? I pity the poor chap who ends up with her.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

Ginny giggled again, then grew serious. “Thank you… for being my friend. I really do care about you. And I hope one day, you’ll find a wonderful girl to love you the way you deserve.”

He met her eyes, only a hint of his feelings showing through. “Just remember, if you ever need me for—well, anything—I’m here.”

Ginny stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck in a warm hug. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and they stood quietly for a few moments.

“We better get back. We don’t want to be late,” he said, setting her away from him and grabbing both of their book bags.

***

Harry took his frustration out on the heavy punching bag. He’d been at it for almost an hour and he still wasn’t through.

“Give it a rest, Potter. You’ll be at Hogwarts tomorrow. You can do it to the real thing.”

Scott Summers laughed as Harry punched the bag so hard that Ernie McMillan, who’d been holding it for him, fell to the floor.

“It might not even be her,” Ernie said as he picked himself up. “That picture is so grainy and out of focus, it could be anyone.”

Harry bent over with his hands on his knees, panting for breath as he ignored them. Dean was unmistakable in the photograph—there just weren’t any other tall black boys like him at Hogwarts. But he was equally certain the girl was Ginny. He’d spent too much time watching her during his summers at the Burrow not to recognize her, even in a grainy, black-and-white, out-of-focus picture.

He knew he should be following his own advice, but he couldn’t seem to make himself ignore the photo. He trusted Ginny—he didn’t believe she would sneak around behind his back. But what if she had changed her mind? What if she’d decided she wanted Dean? He was tempted to go to Hogwarts tonight to sort it out—McGonagall and her weekends-only visits be damned.

But the other question eating at him was how had anyone got that picture? Hogwarts was protected better than Gringott’s. Was someone working on the inside?

“Potter!”

Harry’s head snapped up at the sound of Robards’ disembodied voice reverberating through the room from the fireplace.

“Get up here. We’re starting the interrogation.”

With a wave at Scott and Ernie, Harry grabbed his robes to throw on over his workout clothes as he ran up the steps.

Once in the interrogation room, he tucked himself into a corner by the door and watched as the prisoner was brought in and shackled to the chair in the center of the room. The man was in bad shape—his lip was bleeding and his face was bruised. One eye was swollen nearly closed. Harry didn’t want to think about what condition other parts of him might be in.

They had been through one interrogation session like this on Thursday, with no luck extracting information. This time they were using Veritaserum. Robards had told Harry to be available during the questioning to verify details of the attack, but it was quickly evident that either the absent accomplice had Obliviated the thug’s memory before Disapparating or that the man was a master at resisting the potent truth potion. He gave them no usable information.

“Go over it again, Potter,” Robards ordered as the prisoner was led from the room. Harry watched him go, wondering if the man would make it through the day alive. Emotions were still running high after the war and anyone remotely connected to possible residual Death Eater activities didn’t fare well in Ministry custody, although no one had died since Greyback. Yet. It was one of the things that bothered Harry most—he didn’t think the good guys should sink to the level of the bad guys. What was the point of having a legal system if it wasn’t administered equally for everyone?

“Well?” Robards voice called him back from his thoughts.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Harry couldn’t keep himself from asking.

“We’ll soften ’im up a bit more and see if we can’t get something out of ’im. Then we’ll send ’im to Azkaban to await trial. Not your problem, Potter. You testify he came after you, then go about your business.”

Harry stared at the floor and clenched his teeth to keep from saying something he would be sure to regret. If he were in charge…

He took a deep breath and launched into his story for what seemed the hundredth time since Wednesday evening.

When he’d finished, Robards studied him for a moment. “So you didn’t see the other one Obliviate this one?”

“No, everything happened too quickly. I was tangled in my cloak and trying to figure out who Johnson and Biggerstaff were when the other one Disapparated.”

Robards turned his attention to the two Aurors who had stopped the attack, questioning them and Harry about every detail for another two hours. By the time he was satisfied, it was nearly lunchtime.

“Back here in an hour,” Robards barked at them as he strode from the room.

Harry groaned—it was going to be a long afternoon. With his stomach in knots and his thoughts in a whirl, answers were the only thing on the menu for lunch as far as he was concerned. He made a beeline for the one person who could help him think clearly.

Hermione was eating lunch at her desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures as she pored over an official-looking report. She looked up at his knock and waved her wand to clear the chair in front of the desk.

“Thought you might be along,” she said. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, you know.”

“I know,” he mumbled as he sank into the chair.

“I guess now you know how she feels.”

Harry scowled at her. “The difference is that it’s not someone I’ve dated before and I don’t hug back. Look at this.” He pulled the crumpled picture from his pocket and stuck it under her nose. “She started it. She hugged him first.”

“Dean’s her friend, Harry. She just hugged him. It’s not like they’re having a passionate kiss. I hug you all the time.” Hermione smirked. “And we’ve even made the paper a time or two, as I recall.”

Harry flopped back in the chair with a frown and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go on, then. Have a laugh.”

She tried to straighten her face. “I’m sorry, Harry. It’s just so cute to see you jealous.”

He snorted and looked away. After a moment he looked back at her. “What bothers me more is wondering who took the picture and how.”

Hermione became serious. “Yes, I’ve thought about that. It looks like someone has fitted a camera with Omnioculars or somehow magically enhanced the lens. I suppose if they got high enough on a broom…”

“Or paid off someone inside.” Harry said.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “I wondered about that, too.”

“We never have traced those letters and she’s still getting them. It’s not like they want to hurt her. It’s like—” He searched for the right words. “It’s like they’re trying to wear her down. Make her give up on me. It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone do that?”

“Don’t worry, Harry. She won’t give up. She loves you.”

Harry studied his fingers for a moment, then stood and ran them through his hair as he paced restlessly, able to take only two steps in each direction in the small cubicle. He wanted to believe Hermione, but the evidence was undermining his already shaky confidence. Ginny had every reason in the world to change her mind. He couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t done so before now. But he needed to cling to the thought that she seemed insane enough to want him. Sinking back into the chair, he put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands.

“I hope you’re right. I—” He stopped, unable to finish the thought aloud, as if saying it might make it true. He couldn’t think about it right now. Looking up, he frowned at Hermione. “Fleur said she didn’t look good the other night—that she hasn’t been eating or sleeping.”

Hermione carefully straightened the stack of parchment in front of her. “She did look thin and a bit tired,” she said cautiously. “I think, with Head Girl duties and NEWT studies and Quidditch, she might have taken on a bit much. I talked to her. She’s going to try to get some rest.” She finally looked back at him and changed topics. “So, what about the wizards who attacked you? Did you find out anything?”

Harry wanted to ask more about Ginny, but decided to let it go. “No. We spent the morning questioning the one we caught, but apparently his mate Obliviated him before disappearing. We got nothing, even with Veritaserum.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Veritaserum? This doesn’t seem like a case that would be important enough for Veritaserum.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.” Harry grimaced, thinking of the man’s beaten face. “They’re using some other interrogation techniques that I don’t like any better. Apparently a lot of rules are being… followed loosely—like we’re still at war.”

“That’s not good,” Hermione said with a frown. “Once they start loosening the rules, it’s a short hop to breaking them.”

“I know, but I’m not exactly in a position to do anything about it right now,” Harry said as he stood and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

“Let’s go to supper tonight. You don’t need to sit around brooding until you can go to Hogwarts tomorrow.”

Harry gave her a lopsided grin as he nicked the apple from her lunch tray on the way out the door. “You know me too well.”

She smirked. “See you tonight.”

***

Ginny knocked tentatively on the door of the headmistress’s office. She’d stood it as long as she could—she just couldn’t wait any longer.

Dean had intercepted her with a copy of the _Prophet_ before she got into the Great Hall for breakfast Friday morning. As usual, the newspaper had put the worst possible spin on the photo, describing it as her “secret tryst with a former lover.”

The two of them had gone straight to McGonagall, partly so Ginny could Floo her mother to keep from receiving a Howler, but mostly to try to figure out how the photo had been taken and what needed to be done to better secure the grounds. Of course the idea that someone inside the castle had done it—either for pay or for spite—hadn’t been dismissed. But McGonagall and the teachers were dealing with it now and there was nothing more Ginny could do… except worry about Harry’s reaction.

The day had been a total waste. Aside from trying to tune out the murmurs and snickers of her classmates, Ginny hadn’t heard a word of a single lecture. Anger and dread had been coiling through her insides all day as she wondered whether Harry would be able to take his own advice. He’d told her to ignore the pictures of him that routinely showed up in the press, but that had proved impossible. She trusted him, but still succumbed to her feelings of inadequacy every time he was pictured with some witch who was beautiful or rich or famous or all three. Even if he was able to brush off this picture of her, she wanted—no, needed—to explain. She hated the thought that anyone, especially Harry, would doubt that she loved him. And she hated even worse that Dean had been caught in the middle of it all. It wasn’t fair to any of them and it made her furious. This was exactly why she had no use for the press.

She’d thought about sending Harry an owl, but how could she possibly explain this in a letter? So by Friday evening she had found herself at McGonagall’s door again, begging to make a second Floo call—but Harry hadn’t been home. Kreacher would say only that he’d gone out and refused to provide any other details. That had made her worry even more. Who was he “out” with?

So now, at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, after a very long night, she was knocking on McGonagall’s door once more, determined to wait for Harry to arrive.

“Good morning, Miss Weasley.” McGonagall looked as though she’d been up and dressed for hours.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Professor—”

“I rather thought I’d see you again this morning,” McGonagall interrupted. The expression on her face was stern, but not unkind. “Well, come in. If I know Mr. Potter, you shouldn’t have to wait long.”

Ginny ducked her head. “Thank you, Professor.”

Settling into the high-backed armchair in front of the desk, Ginny watched the sun come over the mountains through the window behind the desk while McGonagall worked through a stack of papers. From where she was sitting, Ginny couldn’t see the fireplace, but after about ten minutes, she heard a whoosh and knew Harry had arrived.

“Good morning, Prof—”

Harry stopped and stared as Ginny rose slowly to turn and face him. She stood still, uncertain about how she should greet him. She wanted desperately to fling herself into his arms, but he was just looking at her, giving no sign at all.

“Harry, I’m so sorry.” Her voice broke and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

He flinched and looked away. “It’s—it’s okay. I—I’ve been—kind of expecting it.”

Ginny stopped in mid-sniffle to gape at him. “Expecting what? That someone would be able to break through the enchantments to take pictures? Or that I’d be stupid enough to give them something to take a picture of?”

He looked back at her, his eyes wide with confusion. “No! No, I meant—”

She took a tentative step toward him, and gasped in surprise as the realization hit—he wasn’t taking his own advice.

“Harry, you’re not taking this rubbish seriously, are you?” she asked, deliberately using his own words against him.

He closed his eyes and blew out a little breath.

“No.” It sounded more like a question.

“Liar.”

She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a thorough kiss. He returned it with an intensity that told her he was as relieved as she was.

McGonagall cleared her throat and they jumped apart, red-faced. Ginny had forgotten all about her.

“You’ll both want to know that we’ve reinforced the enchantments around the perimeter of the school property and that Minister Shacklebolt has kindly agreed to assign an Auror to guard the front gates around the clock. I took the opportunity of your absence at supper last night, Miss Weasley, to make an announcement to the students that anyone found to be involved in this or similar activities will be expelled immediately. We should have no more problems.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

“Right now, Mr. Potter, you can take Miss Weasley to breakfast. I believe it’s been a while since she’s eaten.”

Ginny’s face flamed. She quietly let Harry lead her out the door and down the stairs, but she pulled him into the first empty classroom they passed to finish saying hello.

It felt so good to wrap herself around him and let the stress of the week fade away. She loved the warmth of him, the smell of him, the feel of his heart beating next to hers. She deepened the kiss. He groaned and pulled her closer, his obvious physical response lighting a desire in her for even more.

“Oh, Merlin, Ginny.” Harry pulled away from her breathing heavily. “We’ve got to stop.”

She kissed his jaw. “Why? I’ve missed you so much.”

He dropped a quick kiss on her lips, then whispered against her mouth. “I’ve missed you, too. But we need to go to breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry. Well, not for food,” she said with a wicked grin.

He groaned again as she pulled his head down for another kiss. After a moment, he set her away from him. “Ginny, please. It’s important. We need to go to breakfast.”

She lifted one brow. “You’re really that hungry?”

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if he was working himself up to do something he didn’t want to do.

“No—” He held her off as she started for him again. “I’d much rather stay here… but Fleur says we need to be seen together this weekend—a lot. And we need to be seen with Dean, too.” This last he said with a bit of resentment in his voice.

Ginny took a step back and gaped at him, flapping her arms in frustration. “Fleur says— That’s ridiculous! What difference does it make what Fleur says?”

“She knows what she’s talking about,” Harry said, his jaw set. “Hermione agrees. Otherwise, the rumors will just keep going. If you could leave Hogwarts, we’d put in a couple of public appearances to let them get pictures, but that’ll have to wait for Hogsmeade weekend. For now, we’ll have to concentrate on the students. Whoever’s working on the inside needs to see us. It’s the quickest way to put all of this to rest.”

Ginny opened her mouth and closed it, trying to form a coherent thought to express her outrage. When the words finally came, they exploded all over him. “That’s the biggest load of shite I’ve ever heard in my life, Harry Potter! I’m not going to script my life around someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

He crossed his arms and gave her a look that held just a hint of uncertainty. “So, you’re okay with everyone thinking you and Dean are—”

“No! We’re not!” Ginny was near tears again. “This isn’t fair—not to any of us, but especially not Dean! How can they print lies and make everyone believe things that aren’t true? How can they get away with running our lives like this?”

Harry studied her carefully for a moment, then drew her back into his arms. “We don’t have to let them. If you’re okay with letting it die out on its own, then I am.”

Ginny relaxed into Harry’s embrace, but frowned as she thought over the situation. She didn’t want to play the game by someone else’s rules, but she didn’t want Dean to get hurt any more, either. And she didn’t want to give Harry any reason to doubt her – he sounded confident, but there was something in his eyes that made her wonder. After a few moments, she gave a great sigh and tipped her face up to look at him.

“I suppose you’re right. We should go to breakfast.”

“Actually, Fleur’s right,” Harry said. “I’d rather stay here.”

Ginny scowled. She hated even more to admit that Fleur was right. She pulled away from him and straightened her clothing. “Well, let’s go, then. I guess it’s show time.”

Harry pulled her back to him and kissed her gently. “They shouldn’t have been able to get to you here. What worries me is if they can get in to take pictures, they can get in to do worse. I’m going to visit the _Prophet_ next week to see what I can find out.”

Ginny stepped back to look at him properly. “No, you can’t! They’ll crucify you in the paper.”

“I didn’t say I was going to let them know I was there, did I?”

Ginny smiled as she understood what he was planning. “You be careful. And don’t get into trouble with Robards.”

“I’m always in trouble with Robards,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a crooked grin. “One more thing won’t matter.”

***

Breakfast was in full swing when they arrived at the door of the Great Hall. The chatter echoing off the rafters died in a wave across the room as they entered. Harry kept his arm across her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “Just ignore them.”

Ginny snorted. How could anyone possibly ignore the fact that the Great Hall had just gone silent during breakfast?

The chatter resumed as they moved into the room, but paused dramatically when they sat down opposite Dean. Harry reached across the table to shake hands and asked how the week’s Quidditch practice had gone. Dean gave Harry a suspicious look, but played along, and soon the noise level in the room returned to normal. Ginny tried not to notice exactly what the people around them were discussing.

On the surface, Harry seemed his usual self, but Ginny could tell he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he was trying to appear. He kept his left arm around her waist when he didn’t need his hand to butter his bread or cut his sausage, and he was overly attentive to her needs. She was surprised to find herself annoyed; he was taking the role-playing a bit far. This was exactly the kind of behavior she’d broken up with Dean over in her fifth year. But she brushed it off as part of his effort to squash the rumors and tried to appear normal.

The weekend soon became an exercise in frustration. Ginny wanted nothing more than to relieve her stress by dragging Harry into a secluded corner and making him snog her senseless, at the very least. But he insisted they stick to the plan—they ate every meal with Dean and Seamus in the Great Hall, sat on the common room sofa talking to Neville and Dennis Creevey, studied in the library, walked the grounds, visited with Hagrid, and attended Quidditch practice. He sat with her while she collected the nightly prefect reports. Uncharacteristically open with his affection, he held her hand and put his arm around her and frequently dropped little kisses on her hair. By the time Quidditch practice started on Sunday afternoon, she was ready to scream.

“Harry,” she said, grabbing his arm as he headed off to train Dennis Creevey. “I think we’ve made our point. I really need some time alone with you.”

He smiled at her. “Yeah. Me, too.” He pulled her to him and kissed her soundly, but when he released her she noticed that his eyes flicked past her before he looked at her again. “Let’s find an empty classroom when we’re done here.” He looked over her shoulder again before dropping a quick kiss on her lips and walking off to find Dennis.

Ginny turned around to find Dean watching Harry’s retreating back. It took a moment before he focused on Ginny.

“Weasley, why aren’t you in the air yet?” he said gruffly before kicking off on his broom.

Ginny stared after him. Dean never called her Weasley. She closed her eyes and gave a frustrated growl. She’d seen this behavior often enough from her brothers to know what was going on—she really didn’t need this right now.

***

Harry plucked the Snitch from the air just before Dennis closed his hand around it.

“Okay, what could you have done differently?” he asked as he pulled up to wait for Creevey to catch up.

Dennis threw his head back and laughed. “How could I do something different to beat you? You have a faster broom and… and you’re Harry Potter! _Nobody_ beats you to the Snitch.”

“Wrong,” Harry said patiently. “I’ve been beaten before—”

“Well, sure, Diggory beat you when the Dementors were after you, but—”

“—by Ginny.”

Creevey nearly fell off his broom as he turned to watch the blur of red robes and hair flying across the pitch. “ _Ginny’s_ beaten you?” He turned back to Harry with a knowing smile. “Oh, yeah. You let her.”

“Bloody hell, no! I’d never _let_ her. She’d kill me.” Harry grinned. “Besides, it was before we started dating when I spent the summer with the Weasleys. The point is that anybody can beat anybody. You just have to think ahead—anticipate my moves. And don’t be intimidated by someone who’s _supposed_ to be better. Let’s try it again.”

Harry released the Snitch and the two of them took off. By the time Dean called an end to practice half an hour later, Creevey had caught the Snitch once. As they landed in front of the changing rooms, he was babbling incessantly with excitement and Harry could hardly get a word in edgewise to offer his final advice for training the rest of the week. With the Slytherin game next weekend, Creevey would need to work hard to be ready.

“What’s he so excited about?” Ginny asked as she walked up with her broom over her shoulder. Harry had given up trying to talk through Creevey’s chatter with the other players.

“He caught the Snitch,” he told her with a proud grin. “Grabbed it right from under my nose.”

“You let him, didn’t you?”

“No! That’s the great thing. He did it all by himself.”

Ginny bumped him with her hip. “Losing your touch, huh?”

“No,” he said with an indignant sniff. “I’m just a great teacher.”

She gave him a one-armed hug. “Yes, you are,” she said, then grinned slyly and dropped her voice so only he could hear. “And I think I’m ready for _my_ private lessons, Professor Potter.”

Heat flashed through him. He could think of several interesting topics of study to suggest, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice them with so many people around. He settled for a quick kiss as they made their way to the castle.

When they reached the common room, Ginny went upstairs to change and Harry settled into the armchair by the fire with a sigh of relief. They’d done it. Fleur had been right in advising him to send a strong message to the school that their relationship was fine—and he’d made an extra effort to be sure Dean got the message, too. Now he could finally have Ginny to himself for a couple of hours before he had to leave. With his thoughts on possible secluded spots that would work best for “private lessons,” it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t alone in the room any longer.

Dean was standing inside the portrait hole, watching him. The air in the room became charged with tension. Harry stood, muscles taut, ready for action. Dean was much taller, but Harry knew his Auror training would give him a physical and magical advantage, if needed.

“You’ve been wanting to say something to me all weekend, Potter. Go ahead and spit it out.”

Harry studied him a moment—maybe the message hadn’t got through. He spoke quietly, with only a hint of a threat in his tone. “Stay away from her.” 

Dean waited a beat before answering. “We’re friends. That’s all.”

“Fine. Stay away from her.”

Dean’s jaw muscle flexed, as if he was holding his tongue in check. He finally spoke softly, but without fear. “You remember your fifth year? How the whole world seemed to be against you? That’s how it is for her now. She doesn’t have that many people she can trust here. I’m not going to step away when she needs me.”

Harry gritted his teeth to keep from reacting to Dean’s words. He knew that Ginny had had a hard time since the summer—he wasn’t about to admit he didn’t realize how bad it was until now. He decided to change tack.

“You’re in love with her.”

Dean met Harry’s eyes with unflinching steadiness. “She chose you.”

Harry stared back without comment, fingers itching for his wand.

Dean’s look turned hard. “She chose you. But if you ever make a wrong move—you ever hurt her—I’m there.”

Before Harry could respond, Ginny bounced down the stairs and wrapped her arms around him. He gave her a lingering kiss, then raised his head to stare steadily at Dean.

“Just remember what I said,” Dean said before turning to climb the stairs to the boys’ dormitory.

Ginny pulled out of Harry’s arms and looked at Dean’s retreating back before whirling back around, her face a mixture of confusion and anger.

“What was that all about?”

Harry dragged his eyes from the stairway to look at her. “Just making sure we understand each other.”

“Understand each other? About what?” She looked ready to explode.

Harry reached for her, but she stepped back.

“Understand each other about what?” she repeated, her voice growing a bit louder.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over. Ginny, we don’t have a lot of time left before I have to go. Let’s—”

She stepped out of his reach again, her voice raising another notch. “No! I know what’s going on, Harry. I’m not a piece of property that you can put a ‘no trespassing’ sign on.”

Harry realized he wasn’t going to escape without a row. “I didn’t say you were—”

“Oh, but you think it’s okay to say who I can be friends with?”

“No! Ginny, he doesn’t want to be friends. He’s in love with you.” Harry’s voice was growing louder to match hers.

“He’s never asked me for anything more than friendship. He’s been there for me when I needed him—”

“You think I wouldn’t if I could?”

“—I’ll not have you bullying him about.”

“I’m not bullying him. He can take care of himself.”

“What is it, then? You don’t trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. But what am I supposed to do when your so-called friendship is plastered all over the front of the _Daily Prophet_?” Frustration and anger drove his voice even louder.

She matched his volume. “So, it’s okay for you to turn up with a different woman every day in every newspaper and magazine in the world, but I’m not allowed?”

“The difference is that I’ve never dated any of those women and I’m certainly not going about hugging them.”

“What about Hermione? Or Daphne Darling?”

“Oh, come on, Ginny! Hermione might hug me, but she’s like my sister—and she’s in love with your brother. And Daphne—I work with her. I don’t hug her.”

She glared at him, her breath coming in harsh puffs as she worked to control her anger. “Oh no, of course you don’t. But you don’t seem to mind when she and every other woman in the world drape themselves all over you! Well, Harry, you get to choose your friends and I get to choose mine. And if I want to hug my friends, I will. I’m friends with Dean and I’ll hug him if I want to.”

By now they were yelling so loud Harry was certain they could be heard in the Great Hall. He had to try to turn the conversation around before things got worse.

“Ginny, I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight.” He reached for her again and she moved away.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“What? Who—”

“Dean. You should be apologizing to Dean.”

Harry lost it. “Bloody hell, no! I’m not apologizing to _him_.” 

“Fine!” she said, her voice ominously dropping to a quiet growl. “Then you’re not apologizing to me, either.” She whirled and dashed up the steps to the girls’ dormitory.

“Ginny!” Harry raced to follow her, taking the steps two at the time. He was a dozen steps up when the alarm went off and the staircase Transfigured itself into a stone slide, sending him sprawling to the common room floor. He lay there a moment, fear and anger and frustration battling for prominence in his mind as he smashed his fist onto the stone floor, oblivious to the pain that shot up his arm in response. He got up and yelled for her up the spiral passageway, then paced irritably before the opening.

After ten minutes, the common room began to fill with students returning from supper. He didn’t want to undo their weekend’s work to squelch the rumors, so he put on his “public face” and tried to appear that he was just waiting for her to come down. After ten more minutes, when the room had cleared a bit, he ducked through the portrait hole and paced the corridor under his Invisibility Cloak. He didn’t want to leave things like this. They needed to sort it out. But he wasn’t about to apologize to Dean. She was wrong to ask him to. And the more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

When she didn’t come looking for him after another half hour, he stomped off to McGonagall’s office—fortunately, she wasn’t back from supper—and slammed the Floo powder into the grate.

***

Ginny heard the alarm the moment she closed the dormitory door behind her. Good! At least he couldn’t follow her. She threw herself onto her bed and blinked hard to hold back the tears. She knew she shouldn’t have left. They needed to work it all out. But she was just too angry to keep talking to him right now. She’d had to get away or she would have said something they’d both regret.

When had he become so possessive, so territorial? She had dismissed his cloying attentiveness as part of the effort to dispel the rumors, but now she wondered if it wasn’t something more. She hated being treated like that, protected and coddled like a pet or a china doll. He knew her better than that. He knew she was her own person, able to take care of herself. Why was he doing this? She beat her fists into her mattress.

Merlin, she needed to talk to someone. She wished desperately for Hermione. Hermione knew Harry so well and she could help Ginny think through this. Under different circumstances, she might talk to Dean, but he was just as much at fault in this as Harry. Right now, she wanted nothing to do with either of them.

The burning behind her eyes grew more intense. She curled into a tight ball, feeling more alone than ever. Angry as she was at Harry, the only thing she really wanted right now was to feel his arms around her, his breath on her cheek, his lips on hers. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the flood wouldn’t be held back any longer. Her chest hitched as a sob escaped. She closed her bed curtains and cast a silencing charm to have her cry in peace.

***

Harry paced restlessly in his room. He shouldn’t have left. Now it would be six days before he could see her again, six days before he could try again to make things right. He stopped in the middle of the floor and, for what seemed the hundredth time, yanked on his hair as if to physically pull the answer from his brain.

He was still furious, the anger burning like a bonfire in his chest. But fear was beginning to douse the flames a bit. What if she wouldn’t talk to him? What if they couldn’t work it out? What if they were done for good? Arrrrgh! This was maddening! He needed someone to talk to—someone who could help him think. It wasn’t late. Maybe they were still up…

Hermione answered right away when he put his head into the Floo. “Harry, what are you doing back? What’s wrong?”

“Can I come over?”

She stepped back. “Come on through.”

As Harry stumbled from the grate, Ron walked into the kitchen and gave him a knowing look.

“You and Ginny have a row?”

The heat rush up Harry's face as he looked at his feet. Hermione tut-tutted at him and pushed him into a chair at the table as she summoned a butterbeer from the icebox.

“I think I need something stronger than that,” Harry mumbled.

Ron grinned and reached into the cabinet for the firewhiskey. Hermione rolled her eyes and set the butterbeer bottle in front of Harry. “Put it back, Ron. This will do.”

Harry scowled at her but took a swig.

“So what happened?” she asked, taking a seat across from him.

Harry sighed deeply. “That git Dean Thomas is in love with her.”

“And?” Hermione prompted when he didn’t continue.

“ _And_ she doesn’t see anything wrong with being friends with him.”

“There _isn’t_ anything wrong with it,” Hermione said. “She told me last summer that he knew she was in love with you, and that he would take friendship if that’s all she could offer. And that was before you got back together.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure he would.” He ran his hands through his much-mussed hair.

“So, what else did she say?”

“She thinks I’m being stupid to be upset about it and wants me to apologize to him for warning him off.”

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t…” Hermione shook her head sadly.

He stared at her mutinously. “I did. And I’m not sorry for it, either.”

“Harry, she’s not a piece of property that you can hang a ‘no trespassing’ sign on. You have to trust her.” Hermione sounded exasperated, but gave him a sympathetic look.

Harry flushed again. “That’s exactly what she said.” He glowered as Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him. “I _do_ trust her. It’s him I don’t trust.”

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head. “Harry, they’re _just_ _friends_. He can’t make her do something she doesn’t want to do. If you really do trust her—”

“I do!” He looked nervously at the fire. “But—well, what if she changes her mind?”

“Harry,” Hermione said, waiting for him to look back at her before she continued. “She’s not going to change her mind. She loves you. Dean is just her friend.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Hermione, you should see the way he looks at her—like she’s pudding and he isn’t planning on using a spoon! He told me straight up that if I mucked up, he’d be there to step into my place.”

Hermione sighed. “So what happened then?”

“Ginny and I had a blazing row in the common room, then she ran up to the dormitory and I tried to follow her.”

Ron hooted with laughter. He’d had a similar experience with the staircase to the girls’ dormitories his fifth year. At Harry’s glare, he quickly hid his grin behind his hand.

“Thanks for the support, Ron,” Harry said.

“I’m there for you, mate,” Ron said as he studiously tried to make his expression serious... and failed spectacularly.

“So let me get this straight,” Hermione said. “Dean tells you that if you mess up, he’s going to be there to pick up the pieces, so you immediately pick a fight with her, right?”

Harry set his jaw and looked into the fire.

“And where was Dean when all this happened?”

Harry closed his eyes and ground his teeth for a moment before answering. “In the dormitory,” he muttered.

“Where he could probably hear every word,” Hermione finished for him.

Harry dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Hermione said as she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

Harry mimicked her move and gave her a scathing look. “Thanks, Hermione. I knew you’d help me work out what to do.”

“Well, you have to apologize, of course,” she said in her best I-can’t-believe-you-didn’t-know-this-already voice.

Harry sat forward, flapping his arms in frustration. “I did! I told her I was sorry.”

She huffed in exasperation. “I meant apologize to Dean.”

Harry jumped up, knocking his chair to the floor and pounding his fist on the table. “Bollocks! He knows what he’s doing. We understood each other perfectly.”

Hermione stood and gave him a pitying look. “Well, I can’t help you if you won’t listen to reason. I need to send Ginny a note.” She walked out of the kitchen.

Harry righted his chair and sank into it, giving Ron a despairing look. “You think I’m wrong, too, don’t you?”

“No, I think you’re absolutely right.”

Harry gave him a relieved smile. “Thanks.”

“But you’re still going to have to apologize to Dean.”

“What?” Outrage didn’t begin to describe Harry’s feelings.

Ron peeked around the corner to be sure Hermione wasn’t coming, then pulled the firewhiskey out of the cabinet. He poured a shot for each of them, then refilled the one Harry emptied in one swallow.

“It’s all about strategy, Harry,” Ron said, keeping his voice low and an eye on the door. “You’re absolutely, positively one hundred percent right. No doubt about it. But what good is it? You’re here, drinking my Ogden’s,” he picked up his glass and toasted Harry, “while Dean is at Hogwarts comforting Ginny.”

Harry watched him sullenly, mulling over the situation. He threw back the second shot and grimaced at the burn.

Ron pulled parchment, quill, and ink from a drawer and set it in front of Harry.

“The sooner the better, mate.”

With a heavy sigh, Harry picked up the quill.


	7. Making up is hard to do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after their row takes its toll on Harry and Ginny, and Harry runs into an old "friend."

Ginny woke to her usual Monday blues, but today they were a deep indigo to match the clouds that were gushing torrents of rain outside the castle walls. How fitting. She was so tempted to just stay in bed, but she knew McGonagall wouldn’t let her get away with it two weeks in a row. And certainly not until Saturday, which was how long she’d be here if she stayed much longer.

The memory of the previous evening’s events crashed over her. She’d cried long into the night and slept fitfully, miserable about her row with Harry and furious at the way he and Dean had snarled over her like two crups over a bone. They both knew her feelings, but they were acting like she had no choice in the matter. If she were smart, she’d tell them both to sod off. But she loved Harry and she cared for Dean and she felt anything but smart when it came to handling this situation.

By the time she dragged herself from bed, she barely had time to splash some water on her face, twist her hair into a messy knot on top of her head, and throw on her uniform. She stumbled into Transfiguration at the last moment and gratefully sank into an empty seat several rows behind Dean. He tried to catch her eye, but she kept her head down as she pulled her things from her bag.

The morning crawled by. She spent her time alternately pondering her problems and avoiding Dean. Inevitably, the other students noticed and started to murmur about it. Parvati looked positively triumphant when she managed to take the last empty seat next to him in Charms because Ginny had sat with Luna. Ginny knew she was going to have to make up to him for that.

By lunchtime, she was exhausted. She followed Luna into the Great Hall and flopped down next to her at the Ravenclaw table, ignoring the stares coming from two tables over. For once she was glad that Luna’s housemates usually gave her wide berth. Ginny wasn’t in the mood to socialize.

“You look as though the Glumbumbles have infested your bed curtains, too,” Luna said dreamily as they served their plates. “You know they produce melancholy. I think the whole castle has been contaminated. We really should speak to Mr. Filch about spraying.”

Ginny glanced around the room, noticing again the many weary, grief-stricken faces. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Luna followed her gaze and nodded solemnly. “Loving someone who’s far away is hard.”

Ginny swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “But for most people, it’s not someone who’s just far away—it’s someone who’s dead.”

“Oh, I know. But it’s easier to think of them as just having gone away for a bit. After all, it’s not as if we won’t see them again.” She placed her hand over her heart and smiled gently. “And, besides, the ones we love never _really_ leave us.”

Ginny blinked hard as her lids prickled with tears, surprised that she suddenly felt a bit better thinking that Fred had simply gone on a trip and that one day she would see him again. Hadn’t Luna and Harry heard voices behind the Veil in the Department of Mysteries? Hadn’t they seen Sirius disappear into it? Maybe he and Fred and Remus and Tonks and Colin and all the others who’d fallen in the battle were there, too, behind the Veil, just waiting for their family and friends to join them.

Ginny looked into Luna’s silvery eyes and saw the wisdom she’d seen last summer when they’d talked about getting past the memories of captivity. Luna was eccentric, to put it nicely, but she had an amazing view of the world that made sense more often than one might expect.

“It’s hard to be away from someone you love, isn’t it?” Luna asked softly.

Ginny knew immediately that they weren’t talking about Fred anymore. She looked down at her plate of untouched food. Luna had always been a good friend, someone who could be counted on, but didn’t push herself on anyone. She was watching Ginny now, waiting without pressure. Ginny knew she could turn the conversation in a different direction without offense, or she could take Luna’s kind offer of trust and friendship.

Before Ginny could make a decision, Pigwidgeon flitted before her face followed closely by another owl—Harry’s. Ginny’s heart missed several beats. Since they were together every weekend, they’d decided that Harry would owl on Tuesdays and Thursdays and she would reply on Wednesdays and Fridays. She didn’t know if a letter from him today would be good news or bad.

“That one’s from Harry isn’t it?” Luna asked as she coaxed Pig closer so she could remove the letter tied to his leg. “They both came during breakfast, but they wouldn’t let anyone else have your letters.”

Ginny battled her shaking fingers to remove Harry’s letter, amazed that Luna knew the owl was from Harry. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to get another owl after Hedwig died, but with the amount of mail Fleur was processing, he couldn’t do without one either, and he’d finally asked her to deal with the problem. She’d got three nondescript owls (so they would be less easily recognized and, therefore, less susceptible to interception) and had given them proper French names: Gustave, a barn owl; Jacques, a screech owl; and Napoleon, a tawny owl. Harry called them Gus, Jack, and Leon. As a precaution against overzealous reporters, he sent a different one to Ginny each time and they both charmed their letters so they could be read only by each other.

With Harry’s letter finally in hand, Ginny stared at the envelope. She couldn’t bring herself to open it. Luna finally managed to get Pig to sit still long enough to free his letter and handed it to Ginny. It was from Hermione.

“We should probably go someplace more private,” Luna said.

Ginny gave her a look of gratitude, realizing she didn’t want to be alone to do this. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

Luna smiled. “I know a good place. Come on.”

As they walked out of the Great Hall, Ginny was looking down at Harry’s letter and nearly ran headlong into Lisa Turpin. As both of them drew up short to avoid the collision, Lisa quickly averted her eyes and mumbled, “Excuse me,” before skirting out of the way.

Ginny put her hand out to stop her. “Lisa, wait. How are you?”

Lisa gave Ginny a nervous look as she edged away.

“Lisa, come on. We’re waiting for you.” Romilda was standing at the door with her hands on her hips. She turned to Ginny with false concern in her voice. “You’re looking a bit tired this morning, Ginny. You know, just a bit of makeup would really help. And combing your hair couldn’t hurt, either.”

Ginny’s hand went reflexively to her hair and she grimaced, angry with herself for falling prey again to the insecurities roused by Romilda’s insults. Ginny just didn’t have it in her to handle a confrontation right now.

Lisa gave Romilda a wide-eyed look before turning back to Ginny with a mixture of fear and apology in her face. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Lisa…” Romilda was tapping her foot.

Lisa looked back at the door, then again at Ginny. “I have to go.” 

Lisa walked quickly toward the Great Hall, leaving Ginny staring after her. Apparently, Lisa was back to letting Romilda take control. Ginny watched them go with a sigh. One of these days she was going to give Romilda what she deserved.

Ginny caught up with Luna on the first landing and was surprised when they ended up in the seventh floor corridor in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to dance the ballet.

“Luna, I don’t think it’s here anymore. Hermione and Ron said it was burned up during the final battle.”

“Oh, no. That was just the Room of Hidden Things. It can still be other things,” Luna said as she began walking back and forth before the blank stone wall. When the door appeared, she gestured for Ginny to follow. “I’ve been using it a fair bit.”

Ginny noticed briefly that Gus had followed them and zoomed into the room ahead of her, but once inside she forgot about him as she looked around in wonder. The room was an exact replica of Luna’s bedroom before her house was destroyed. Or at least it looked as Ginny had imagined when Harry described it to her—he’d seen it when they had gone to talk to Luna’s father in their search for clues to help defeat Voldemort. She gazed in awe at the beautifully painted portraits on the ceiling—her own face along with Harry, Hermione, Ron and Neville—linked together with a golden chain formed by the word “friends” repeated over and over.

“Luna… it’s beautiful.” Ginny reluctantly drew her eyes from the ceiling to look at her friend.

“I find it rather comforting,” Luna said in her placid way.

Ginny furrowed her brow. “Your house. Did you—”

“Oh, yes. Daddy and I put it back together. But I like being able to spend time in my own room while I’m here, too. It’s very pleasant.”

Ginny nodded as she took in the pale blue carpet and bed linens and the photograph by the bed that had to be Luna and her mother.

Luna patted the bed. “You should read your letters.”

When they had sat down, Ginny opened Hermione’s letter first.

> _Ginny,_
> 
> _Harry came over tonight. I’m so sorry that you’re having to deal with this on top of everything else. I told Harry he was wrong to act the way he did and that he should apologize to Dean, if that’s what you want. He’s very upset that he’s made you unhappy. Please let me know if I can do anything to help._
> 
> _—Hermione_

Well, at least someone was on her side.

She stared at Harry’s envelope for a moment, letting her eyes linger on her name in his sloppy scrawl. His hand had touched this envelope, just last night. Last night, after she’d left him standing at the foot of the dormitory stairs yelling after her to come back down. They’d both been so angry. But before the night was through, her anger had faded and been replaced by a hunger to see him, to sort things out between them… to be sure he knew she loved him. She felt trapped, as if the school had become a prison designed to keep them apart.

Drawing a deep breath, she popped the seal. Her fingers shook badly as she drew the parchment from the envelope and unfolded it.

> _Dear Ginny,_
> 
> _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’ll do whatever it takes to fix things between us. Please say we can work this out._
> 
> _Gus will wait for your answer._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Harry_

Ginny frowned at the letter. She should be feeling happy, shouldn’t she? Harry had said he would do what she wanted. But now it didn’t feel right. She didn’t want him to do it if he didn’t think it was the right thing to do. As angry as she was with him, she respected him for standing up for himself. She’d heard too many conversations between Lavender and Parvati about making boys grovel and beg for forgiveness—she didn’t want her relationship with Harry to be like that. 

“Is it bad news?” Luna asked, pulling Ginny from her thoughts.

Ginny shook her head, still scowling at the parchment. “No, it’s good. He wants to work things out.”

Ginny looked up to find a confused expression on Luna’s face. “Work things out? Did you have a disagreement?”

“More like a blazing row,” Ginny said with a bitter little laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. It was all over the school this morning.”

Luna gave her a compassionate look. “What did you argue about?”

Ginny dropped her eyes back to the letter. “Dean.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Luna said thoughtfully. “He’s in love with you, too.”

Ginny’s eyes filled as she looked up. “Luna, I’m so tired. I’m tired of everything being so... hard. I’m tired of trying to do everything and be everything that everyone else wants. The war’s over. Things are supposed to be easier now... happier. Why can’t I be happy?” She swiped angrily at her tears that were now flowing freely over her cheeks. “And, damn it, I’m tired of crying!”

“It’s okay to be sad,” Luna said as she put a comforting hand on Ginny’s shoulder. “And it’s okay to be angry. Maybe you just need to let yourself be how you feel until you feel the way that you want.”

Ginny ran her fingers over her eyes to clear them as she tried to sort out Luna’s words. Her brain was too muddled for riddles—she supposed this was Luna’s way of saying she just needed time. She knew that already. But she was tired of waiting for things to get better.

“Don’t give more of yourself than you have,” Luna continued. “The ones who love you will be there when you’re ready. Let them know what you need.”

Yes. That was it. She just had to let them know what she needed.

Ginny heaved a big sigh. “I guess I should write back to Harry.”

“I’ll go. You stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Luna,” Ginny said with a sad smile. “You’ve been a big help.”

“You’re welcome.”

As the door closed, Ginny pulled out her parchment and quill. She’d miss her next class, but at the moment she couldn’t work up the energy to care.

***

Harry pulled his jacket tighter to ward off the chill, though the cold bothering him wasn’t necessarily from the wind. Gus hadn’t returned by the time he’d got home and after an hour of pacing Grimmauld Place, he’d given up and taken to walking the streets of Muggle London to ward off the icy fear that was seeping into his bones. Maybe she wasn’t going to write back. Maybe he’d really mucked up this time.

He had spent an hour last night working on that bloody letter. He didn't want Ginny to be unhappy, but he saw no reason why he should apologize to Dean—he’d rather cast a _Tinea Cruris_ 1 hex on Dean’s bits and watch the itching drive him mad. The stupid git might say he was willing to settle for friendship, but Harry could see the hunger in his eyes. Dean was just waiting for a chance to move in and he had an advantage Harry couldn't counter—Dean was there. He could be with Ginny every day, he could see her face, judge her moods, try to make her smile. All Harry could do was write letters and hope when he showed up on the weekends that Dean hadn't managed to inch his way further into Ginny's heart. Harry growled in anger. The fear and frustration were eating him alive. He hadn't done anything that needed apologizing for... except make Ginny angry.

As much as he hated to admit it, though, Ron was right. By confronting Dean, Harry had put Ginny in the position of having to defend her friend. He'd forced her to choose. And now he couldn't be there to undo the damage. He didn't want to fight with her. He didn't want to make her unhappy. The only thing he could do at this point is let her know he loved her and offer to do whatever she wanted. Even if it meant apologizing to Dean. The slimy git.

Harry kicked fiercely at a stone in his path. The worst part was that he couldn’t talk to her— McGonagall had refused his request to come back before Saturday. And a letter just wasn’t going to do it—at least not one of his letters. He was rubbish at putting his feelings on paper. He wasn’t much better at voicing them, but if he could just see her, he knew he could convince her that they could fix it. And if that didn’t work, he’d just kiss her until she believed him. But he couldn’t see her until Saturday… and Dean was there _now_.

Harry flung his hand toward a small bench by the pavement. It exploded.

“Potter!”

Harry jumped at the sound, then snarled in the general direction of the voice, “What?”

“Careful with that. We’re in Muggle territory.”

Without slowing his pace or turning around, Harry waved his hand to repair the bench.

“Bugger off. I’m not in the mood to be arsed with nannies tonight.”

“Just following orders.”

“Yeah, well, keep it to yourself.”

After the attack the previous week, and much to Harry’s annoyance, the Minister had ordered two Aurors under Disillusionment Charms to tail Harry whenever he left the Ministry or his house (although Harry suspected they’d been doing so for months already). The Minister had even asked him to wear a tracking amulet, but he’d stubbornly refused.

Harry jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders as he strode along. He hated this feeling of helplessness. He needed to _do_ something. And he didn’t want an audience when he did it. Feeling reckless and irritated, he quickly stepped and turned, leaving his escorts shouting in protest as he disappeared.

He reappeared in the alley around the corner from his favorite Muggle pub, but hurried past it to lose himself in the city streets. He was sure the Ministry knew his regular haunts and would be checking them quickly. Slipping on his Invisibility Cloak, he made his way to the offices of the _Daily Prophet_. It was time to find out who was behind the information and photos coming out of Hogwarts.

He eased into the newsroom unnoticed by the harried staff that was apparently working to meet deadline. A middle-aged, heavy-set man was yelling at the group at large to get their arses in gear, while most of the people in the room were either scribbling frantically on parchment or had their heads in the fireplaces lining the back wall, evidently gathering last-minute information via the Floos. Harry made his way carefully around the perimeter of the room to avoid bumping into anyone amid the chaos. He edged his way to the editor’s office and waited for the heavy-set man to open the door.

“Skeeter! Get in here!” the editor bellowed as he pushed the door open.

Harry slipped under the man’s arm and wedged himself into the corner behind the door so no one would notice him in the tight space. Rita Skeeter followed the editor in and closed the door behind her.

“What’s the latest from our Hogwarts correspondent?” the editor barked.

Harry couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe this wouldn’t take as long as he’d thought.

“The picture did the trick—seems our lovebirds had a bit of a row last evening,” Rita said with exaggerated sympathy in her voice belied by the wicked gleam in her eye. “The follow-up story is sure to keep the readers coming back for more.”

“Good work,” the editor said. Rita preened under the praise, but stopped when he continued. “But I want an exclusive with that Weasley girl before the end of the month. What’s the latest on Potter’s involvement with Greyback’s death?”

“As usual, the Ministry’s protecting him, and he’s as hard to catch as a Crumple-horned Snorkack. That publicist of his knows her stuff. And she’s protecting the girl, too—believe it or not, it’s her husband’s sister.”

Harry made a mental note to give Fleur a bonus.

“Merlin, those Weasleys are everywhere, aren’t they?” the editor said. “So what’s your plan?”

“Well, our correspondent says the elusive Miss Weasley is skittish about the press after last summer and has vowed not to do any interviews.”

“Hrmph! Can’t imagine why.”

Harry had to call on all of his strength to stand quietly as the two of them laughed.

“If I can get in good with Mrs. Delacour-Weasley—or if I can corner him—I might be able to get Potter and the girl to talk to me together. But I don’t think that’s likely.” Rita sat tapping her blood-red nail on her chin, a thoughtful look in her eye. “There might be another way, though. The other boy—oh, what’s his name—David or Dan—Dean! That’s it. Dean Thomas. He was there when Greyback’s minions took her and they were quite cozy all summer before she and Potter got together. And, of course, they still look pretty tight, if that picture’s any indication. I’m thinking he might be able to talk her into it. I’ll get in touch with the headmistress first thing in the morning.”

“All right, well get on it. We need something for page one on Wednesday and an interview with the third corner of this love triangle would be just the ticket.”

After Rita left, Harry was stuck in the small office until the editor returned to the newsroom. As he made his way back around the room toward the door, Harry passed the clanking press, spitting out copy after copy of tomorrow’s edition of the paper with the account of his and Ginny’s fight. With a wave of his hand, the magical machine came to a grinding halt. He smiled at the resulting uproar. He might not be able to prevent the _Prophet_ reporters from writing rubbish, but he could slow down the process of getting that rubbish printed. Tomorrow’s paper was going to be very late.

After the hubbub of the newsroom, the streets of London were relatively quiet. Harry took off his cloak and wandered down several unfamiliar roads as he tried to decide what to do next. He needed to warn Ginny—and Dean—but they might not want to listen to him. He definitely needed to talk to Fleur—maybe she could talk to them. Rita Skeeter was now blacklisted as far as he was concerned. At least he was sure now that someone was feeding her information from inside Hogwarts, but he was no closer to knowing who it was. Ginny had said the enchantments around the school were set to protect against Animagi, but he didn’t trust them to keep out beetles.

Just as he had decided to Apparate home and Floo McGonagall, he realized he had meandered into the dark, quiet woodlands of one of the city’s many parks. The sounds of the city had faded into the distance, leaving only the call of the night birds and the crunch of dry leaves as he walked through them—but he wasn’t the only one stirring the leaves. He stopped to listen. The footsteps behind him came to a halt a second too late to go unnoticed.

Harry quickened his pace and took several abrupt turns in the path before stepping into the shadows and drawing his wand. He didn’t have to wait long. When the hooded figure—the same one that had been following him for weeks—sprinted around the corner, Harry grabbed him from behind in one fluid motion, forearm around his neck, wand tip at his jaw.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“Get us out of here, Potter. Now!” the voice hissed.

_Malfoy_? Harry heard footsteps running toward them.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Just do it!”

With a quick step, the park and the footsteps were gone. But before their feet were set in their new location, Harry shoved Malfoy to the ground and stood over him, wand pointed at his head.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked with distaste at the grass glimmering in the wandlight around him, then lifted his shoulder out of the thick, wet mud that was seeping into his trench coat.

“Oh, brilliant! How am I supposed to get this clean without magic?”

Harry gave a bark of laughter. “You really want me to believe you’re not using magic?”

Malfoy glared up at him. “They put a Trace on me—something new they’re using on Azkaban prisoners. It’s stronger than the one we had as kids. More specific.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. Pull the other one now.”

Malfoy sighed. “I don’t really care whether you believe me or not, Potter. Though I’m surprised you don’t know about it from your Auror training.”

Harry vaguely remembered hearing something about it in one of his classes, but was more interested in watching Malfoy deal with the mud. As he pushed himself away from the puddle, Malfoy ended up with mud oozing between his fingers. Shaking his hand in disgust, he slung slime over the front of himself. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Malfoy cast him a withering look. “May I get up?”

Unable to hide his gloating smile any longer, Harry motioned with his wand for Malfoy to stand and backed off to give him room. Nearly in pain from holding back his laughter, Harry watched as Malfoy tried futilely to brush off the black goo, managing only to smear it worse.

“You think this is funny don’t you?” Malfoy sneered. “You could get rid of it for me, you know.”

Harry dabbed a finger at the tears of glee that pooled in the corners of his eyes. He worked hard to speak through the chuckles forcing their way to his throat. “No, I think it’s a perfect new look for you.”

Malfoy drew himself up, wrapping his usual haughty dignity around him like a clean cloak. “Fine, then. Perhaps I’ll keep my information to myself.”

Harry sobered instantly. “What information?”

Malfoy held out his arms and raised a questioning brow.

Harry shook his head. “No way. I want answers first. Lots of them and fast. Why have you been following me?”

“Officially, I’m supposed to be helping them capture you to use as bait. And probably for a bit of revenge as well.”

“Yeah, that about sums up my life. So what’s the unofficial reason?”

“I needed a chance to talk to you where we wouldn’t be overheard.” He looked around at the clearing surrounded by trees and darkness. “Where are we?”

“Forest of Dean. Why didn’t you just contact me at the Ministry?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Right. I’m just supposed to stroll into the Ministry and ask for you. That wouldn’t look at all suspicious, would it? No wonder the Hat put you in Gryffindor. Are you sure they didn’t let you into the Auror program just because of your name?”

Harry gritted his teeth and let the remark pass. “Why not just send an owl?”

“Owls get intercepted, Potter, and I can’t use magic to charm letters for privacy.” Malfoy shook his head and muttered to himself, “This was a stupid idea. Why I thought you’d have got any smarter—”

Harry resisted the urge to hex him. “Just talk, Malfoy. Why are we here?”

Malfoy looked at Harry then at the ground and back again, obviously waging war with himself in his head. With a huff, he growled, “I guess I don’t have any choice at this point, do I?”

Harry curled one side of his mouth into a humorless smile. “It’s a long walk home.”

Malfoy’s eyes turned to steel at the realization of that truth. His hands flexed as if he’d like to use them on Harry to work out his frustration.

“Right,” he finally said.

Harry marveled at the way Malfoy could maintain his air of superiority and control even while, muddy and wandless, he obviously had neither.

“Talk,” Harry commanded with a twitch of his wand.

Malfoy glared at him. “I need someone at the Ministry I can trust. Unfortunately, you’re it.” He stopped and looked into the trees, muttering under his breath then looked back at Harry. “You can’t breathe a word of where you heard this to anyone, Potter. Not Weasel and the Mud—” He stopped and swallowed as Harry’s wand bit into his chin, but his voice was no less strong when he continued. “Not Weasley and Granger. Not anyone. Understand?”

Harry didn’t move his wand. “Why should I believe anything you say? Why should _I_ trust _you_?”

“You saved my life. I owe you.”

“Your mother saved mine. We’re even.”

They stared at each other in silent standoff.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Malfoy muttered, before tipping his chin up, away from the pressure of the wand, and looking Harry in the eye. “All right, then. Fine! You want to know why? I’ll tell you. Much as I hate to admit it, you’re the only person I know who’ll do the right thing, even if it means working with people you dislike. There! Satisfied?”

Harry studied him for a moment. “Dislike” was a major understatement when applied to Malfoy, but Harry didn’t exactly hate him, either—he wasn’t sure what emotion fit. The one thing he _was_ sure of, though, was that the words “trust” and “Draco Malfoy” didn’t belong in the same universe, much less the same sentence. There was too much history between them to be erased with just one grudging admission of respect—primarily Malfoy’s actions that had led to Dumbledore’s death. But Harry’s mystery sensors had already been tuned and it was too late to walk away now.

Harry finally lowered his wand, but kept it trained on Malfoy. “So, what right thing am I supposed to do?”

“I have your word?”

“Thought you trusted me.”

Malfoy glared in mute protest.

“We can take this conversation to the Ministry, if you prefer,” Harry said, taking a step forward.

Malfoy stepped back, squarely into the mud puddle. “Damn it, Potter! Now look what you made me do.”

“I’m going to do worse if you don’t start talking and fast.”

Malfoy gave a colorful recitation of what he’d like to do to Harry and the mud and the world in general as he stomped his foot in the grass, trying to get the muck off his shoe and the bottom of his trouser leg.

“Malfoy! I don’t have all night.”

Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest, getting mud from his hand on the clean sleeve of his coat. With a grimace, he glowered at Harry before growling, “Dolohov—”

“Dolohov? He died in the final battle.”

“Yeah, that’s what he wants everyone to think.”

Harry seethed with sudden fury. Dolohov was the one who’d nearly killed Hermione in the Department of Mysteries—and the one who’d reportedly killed Remus and Tonks. The thought that he was still alive and functioning as a Death Eater had Harry’s fingers twitching on his wand with the need to stop him once and for all.

“Anyway,” Malfoy continued, “he’s gathered some of the remaining Death Eaters, the children of the Death Eaters who are in Azkaban, and others who were sympathetic to Voldemort. They’re planning an attack.” He paused for dramatic effect. “On Gringott’s.”

Harry snorted in disbelief—apparently not the reaction Malfoy was hoping for. “No way they could take Gringott’s. It’s too well guarded.”

Recovering his dignity, Malfoy smirked. “You got in.”

“That’s why it’s more heavily guarded than ever.”

Malfoy sighed heavily. “That’s beside the point, anyway. They don’t want to steal anything. They’re going to use Polyjuice to make it look like it’s a Ministry move to take over the bank. The whole thing’s designed to discredit the Ministry, destabilize the economy, stir up a goblin rebellion. Dolohov’s in cahoots with some of the goblin leadership and has plans to secure a place for himself in the new regime so he’ll be in position to double-cross the goblins and pick up where Voldemort left off.”

Harry turned the information over in his head. It made more sense than he would’ve liked. The goblins had been disgruntled for years because of the Wizarding world’s pervasive prejudice and discrimination against them. At Shell Cottage last spring, Griphook had spoken bitterly about wizard refusal to share the secrets of wand-lore with goblins and other magical beings. Although the goblins hadn’t actually sided with Voldemort, the war had heightened tensions between goblins and wizards, and if they were given a good reason, the goblins were ripe to be pushed into a new rebellion.

“Goblins can’t be trusted to keep their end of a bargain,” Harry finally said. “They’ll probably be the ones doing the double-crossing.”

“Exactly! The whole plan is ridiculous. But it could still have disastrous results.”

“So why are you telling me this? What’s in it for you? How do I know you’re not just putting on a good act, playing the spy again and setting me up to get killed, or at least to look like a fool?”

Malfoy stared blankly at Harry for a moment, flexing his jaw, obviously working through a decision in his head. His eyes snapped back into focus and he gave Harry a piercing look.

“Father’s in Azkaban. Mother and I are living like Muggles in a dump in Knockturn Alley. The Ministry seized our assets and they’re watching us like hawks.”

“Poor Malfoy. Must be tough not to have everyone bowing and scraping for you,” Harry said with a tone of sarcastic sympathy that turned cold. “You’re lucky not to be in Azkaban with your father.”

Malfoy raised his balled fists and tensed into a fighting stance. Harry lowered his wand and sent a silent invitation with his eyes—how he’d love an excuse. But Malfoy suddenly turned away, running his clean hand through his hair and muttering to himself. After a moment, he turned back to Harry, palms outstretched.

“I’m trying to do the right thing, here, Potter. I want out.”

Harry laughed harshly. “And you think playing the double agent is going to get you out?”

“If I try to walk away, I’m a dead man. At least if I turn Ministry informant, I’ll stay out of Azkaban. And maybe I can make up—”

Harry’s temper flared. “No! There’s _nothing_ you can do to make up for what you’ve done, for what your father did. You sound just like Snape, trying to atone for your sins by becoming a spy. Look where it got him.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Malfoy matched Harry’s anger and they glared at each other for a moment. Then, without warning, all the arrogance left his face, leaving him looking young and vulnerable. “You were there—you heard Dumbledore’s offer to protect my family. I should’ve taken it. I have to protect my mother. She’s terrified I’m going to get killed or chucked into prison and she’ll be left alone. I can’t let that happen. She risked everything for me.”

Harry didn’t respond as he tried to decide whether or not to believe the story. As the silence stretched, Malfoy’s mask of disdain returned.

“She risked everything for you, too, Potter.”

“She didn’t do it for _me_ ,” Harry said, wishing it hadn’t come out sounding so bitter. He continued quickly. “So what exactly do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stop Dolohov.”

“Right. And how am I supposed to do that if I can’t tell anyone about this conversation?”

“You can tell them about the conversation—just not who you had it with.”

“Oh, that’s going to go over well. I can just see Shacklebolt’s face when I feed him this load of shite.”

“What’s the matter, Potter. The Chosen One doesn’t have the clout he used to have?”

“Watch it, Malfoy. It’ll take you three days to walk home from here.”

They glared at each other for several moments as Harry tried to decide the best course of action. If this story were true, the results, as Malfoy said, could be disastrous. And Harry’s gut was telling him that he shouldn’t dismiss this just because Malfoy was a pompous git. He didn’t have a choice; he’d have to follow up.

“So when is this supposed attack going to take place?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

“You don’t know?” Harry exploded. “You’ve follow me for weeks to ask me to stop Dolohov and you don’t even know when the bloody attack is going to happen?”

“No, not yet.” Malfoy pressed his lips into a line and shifted uncomfortably. “They don’t always let me know when the meetings are, okay?”

“Oh, great! So, now I’m telling the Minister of Magic about a possible attack on Gringotts, but I don’t know when it’s supposed to happen. I think you’re full of it, Malfoy.”

“All right, then. Fine! I’ll give you something to establish my credibility. Dolohov is the one who got to Greyback.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. How?”

“He’s got someone on the inside—a clerk named O’Malley.”

“Is he Imperiused?”

“No, well paid. He’s feeding Dolohov information regularly. It’s how they’re getting the bits for the Polyjuice. They’ve already got Robards and about a dozen Aurors. They’ve even got you, Potter,” he said grimly. “The Minister’s the only one left on the list.”

“That’s going to be a good trick to get a bit of _him_. He’s bald and doesn’t wear a beard. And I’d like to think he’s not clipping his toenails in his office.”

“Why do you think they haven’t struck? They’ve got a plan—I just don’t know what it is yet.”

Harry studied Malfoy’s tense expression for a moment. A mole in the Ministry would be easier to verify than a plot against Gringott’s. He made a decision.

“Okay. If they still need to get the Minister for the Polyjuice, we’ve got some time. Have they brewed the potion yet?”

“They’ve started. It’ll be done in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll look into O’Malley—to verify your credibility. Meanwhile, you find out when they’re planning to attack.”

Malfoy quickly checked the relief that crossed his face. “Fine,” he said, then frowned. “Do you have a better way to make contact? I can’t keep losing my cohorts like this. They’re going to get suspicious.”

Harry reached into his pocket and tossed a golden coin into the air. Malfoy caught it, a look of understanding on his face.

“Can you Floo to the Three Broomsticks?” At Malfoy’s nod, Harry added, “I’ll let you know when.”

“Give me at least a couple of days.” Malfoy lifted his chin and looked as if his next words were leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy. This doesn’t mean we’re mates, now. Just silent business partners.”

Malfoy nodded curtly. “Right. Now get me back to that park so I can look suitably frustrated at losing you…again.”

With a smirk, Harry waved his wand and removed the mud from all but Malfoy’s shoes, then threw his Invisibility Cloak over himself and took them both back to the park. When they landed in the secluded corner they’d left, he released Malfoy and stepped back into the shadows as heavy footsteps drew closer.

“Malfoy! Where have you been?”

Malfoy looked down his nose at the shabbily dressed wizard. “Looking for Potter. Where else? Did you find him?”

The wizard eyed him suspiciously. “We’ve been looking for both of you for an hour. We’ve covered these woods three times. Where’d you go?”

“I’ve been right here looking, just like you. How would I go anywhere else? Walk?” Malfoy said with an air of disdain. Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the expression of distaste on Malfoy’s face. The wizards looked at each other quizzically before conceding the point with a shrug.

“So, I suppose you’ve lost him…again,” Malfoy said condescendingly as he straightened his coat and brushed away an imaginary (or possibly real, Harry thought) fleck of dirt. “I’ll allow you to answer for it.”

With that, Malfoy strode away, leaving the two wizards staring angrily after him.

***

Two furious Aurors were pacing the pavement in front of Grimmauld Place when Harry Apparated onto the top step. He had barely got his balance when Gus landed on his shoulder. All thoughts of _Prophet_ reporters and goblin rebellions vanished from his mind as Harry waved at the Aurors and dashed into the house. They could have their pound of flesh tomorrow. He had a letter to read.

“Hey, Gus. What took you so long?” Harry asked, stroking the owl’s silky feathers as he made his way to the kitchen. He collected the letter and put a few treats in the tray on the perch.

The envelope was thick. Her letter must be much longer than his. He stared at it for a few moments, suddenly nervous about what he would find inside. Fear flashed through him. Would it take a long letter to tell him that she didn’t want to see him again? He sank slowly into a chair and turned the envelope over several times before he could bring himself to open it. When he finally mastered his trembling fingers and forced his eyes to focus on the page, he began to breathe again.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I love you._

The words jumped off the page, filling him with a potent mixture of relief and anticipation. He read those three words over and over, savoring them like water after a long Quidditch match, studying the neat handwriting with its graceful, even loops that looked feminine yet strong. Her hand had touched this page, just hours ago, forming the letters of his name and these words that made his heart race. He lifted the parchment to his nose and breathed in the delicate memory of her fragrance that clung to the paper. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that she was there next to him.

“Does Master Harry require anything? Should Kreacher prepare supper?”

Harry jumped at the sound of the elf’s voice. “Er, no. Thanks, Kreacher. I’m, er, going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“As you wish, Master Harry. Sleep well.”

“Thanks. You, too.”

Harry took the stairs two at the time and closed the bedroom door behind him. He knew it wouldn’t keep Kreacher out and there was no one else in the house to be bothered about, but he needed the feeling of privacy.

Throwing himself into the armchair in front of the fireplace, he waved his hand to light the blaze as he opened the letter again.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I love you._

He stopped, unable to continue as a new thought slipped into his mind. What if she was softening the blow? What if— He shook his head to clear the errant thoughts and forced his eyes down the page.

> _I wrote the words above nearly an hour ago. I’ve been trying to think what to say next but my thoughts keep chasing themselves around in my head and I’m having a hard time making sense of them._
> 
> _I suppose I should say I’m sorry. And I am sorry that I didn’t stay downstairs and talk with you last evening. But I couldn’t have. I was too angry. I would have said things that I shouldn’t, things I wouldn’t have been able to take back. So, in a way, I guess I’m not sorry I didn’t stay. I’m afraid I would have made matters worse._
> 
> _And I can’t say I’m sorry that I got angry, either, because I still am. I can’t seem to let it go. I’m angry at both of you. I suppose most girls would be flattered to have two blokes fighting over them, but I’m not. I think it’s stupid. You both seemed to have forgotten that I have a choice in this matter and I’ve already made it. The two of you acting like prats isn’t going to change my mind. I still love you and I’m glad you want to work things out. And I still want Dean to be my friend—if he’ll have me after this. I don’t know, yet, because I’m still not speaking to him._

A flare of triumph surged through Harry at the knowledge that she wasn’t speaking to Dean. But the guilt that had been building in his gut quickly took over. He had acted out of instinct in warning Dean off, giving free rein to the survival skills that had served him his whole life whenever he felt threatened. He hadn’t once thought about how it would make Ginny feel. And now she thought him a prat. He swallowed hard and continued to read.

> _I know that’s not what you want to hear. But Dean has been such a good friend, I can’t tell him to sod off just because you feel threatened. I don’t even want to. This summer when I was helping George and Ron reopen the shop, Dean was there for me to talk to about Fred and everything that happened after the war. (Please don’t think I blame you. I know, now, that you would have helped if you could have._

A feeling of dread coiled through Harry’s veins. She’d said that before, about Dean being there for her. But Harry had been caught up in the post-war victory celebrations, then away at Auror training camp, and Ginny had had to seek comfort elsewhere. And now circumstances were keeping them apart again. And Dean was there…again. Harry ran his hand through his hair, yanking on it in frustration. Would he ever be _able_ to be there for her?

> _Things have been very hard here this year. Everything’s different. You know what it’s like, being here with all the memories of the war. And I’m still struggling over what happened on my birthday. My memories of what happened first year have even come back. In my dreams, they keep getting all tangled up with everything that happened this summer. Needless to say, I haven’t been sleeping well. Dean and Luna are the only ones here who really understand. But Luna’s in a different house and I don’t get to see her very often, so I depend on Dean a lot. I have only a few other friends here that I can trust. I keep to myself mostly when I’m not doing my Head Girl duties. It’s just a lot easier that way._
> 
> _I don’t feel much like myself anymore and I don’t like who I’ve become. I keep waiting for you to realize I’m not the girl you kissed in the common room in front of all those people at the end of fifth year. Maybe you won’t like who I am now, either. I can’t seem to put the past behind me and I can’t find much to be happy about in the present…except you. McGonagall thinks I’m becoming too dependent on you. Maybe she’s right. I live for the weekends. It’s the only time I feel happy. I’m glad to know you won’t be out chasing dark wizards again for a few years. I know you can take care of yourself—you’ve been doing it for many years—but if anything ever happened to you, I think I might just fade away into nothing. I miss you so much. I hate being trapped here where I can’t talk to you properly, or feel your arms around me, or kiss you whenever I want._
> 
> _And I hate that I see more of you in the newspapers and magazines than I do in person. It’s hard when you’re so far away not to let my doubts and fears take over whenever I see a picture of you with some beautiful woman. So, I guess I understand how you felt about the picture of Dean and me. But that doesn’t excuse your actions. I’m still a bit angry, but not so much now. And I love you too much not to forgive you._
> 
> _I don’t want you to apologize to Dean if you don’t think you should. But I hope that you’ll understand that I need you both right now._
> 
> _I’m sorry to have gone on so. I hadn’t meant to say so much, but once I got started writing, I couldn’t seem to stop. I’m afraid now you’ll think I’m truly mental and you won’t want to see me anymore. I should probably burn this letter and write another, but I’m just too tired now and Gus is becoming impatient._
> 
> _Please don’t be late Saturday morning. It’s Quidditch and we won’t have much time to talk before the match._
> 
> _I love you,_
> 
> _Ginny_

 

He read the letter twice more, then sat staring into the fire. He had sensed she was still struggling, but he hadn’t realized the depth of her troubles. How had he not seen what she’d been going through? Part of the reason was because he just couldn’t spend enough time with her, but, even more likely, it was because he hadn’t been paying proper attention when he _was_ with her. Their time together since the war had been so limited that they both seemed to want to stay away from difficult discussions. He’d been concentrating on getting to know her again, but in a way that didn’t take into account her internal turmoil. This is what Hermione had been talking about before his first visit to Hogwarts. What had she said? Something about reading between the lines of Ginny’s letters and Ginny not mentioning being homesick because she wouldn’t want to worry him.

Harry’s stomach churned at the knowledge that Dean had told the truth about Ginny having such a hard time this year. She mostly seemed happy when they were together—she said she was happiest on the weekends—but he realized now how much she had been putting on an act for his benefit. She’d always been so lively and popular and strong, and he wanted to believe she was still the same. As much as he hated the thought, he supposed he should be grateful to Dean. Harry’s heart and head went to war. He didn’t want her to be sad and all alone, and if he couldn’t be there, he was glad she had someone to lean on. He wished it wasn’t Dean, but he would try to understand and accept their friendship to make Ginny happy.  

She'd said she loved him and missed him. The words lit a warm glow in Harry's heart that chased away the icy fear that had seeped into his soul. He might not be able to be there during the week to soothe her troubles and calm her fears, but Harry decided he would do everything he could to make her weekends wonderful.

~~~~~

_1 Tinea Cruris is the medical name for jock itch — thanks to cacata for the idea for this spell._


	8. Waiting & Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ginny avoids an unwanted invitation, Harry begins his investigation and issues an invitation of his own.

“Mr. Thomas.”

Professor McGonagall’s voice carried from the head table over the chatter in the Great Hall on Tuesday morning as Ginny slipped into her place for breakfast.

After sending Harry’s letter yesterday, she’d fallen asleep on Luna’s bed. It was early evening by the time she’d awakened, drained and disoriented from dreams she couldn’t quite remember. Loath to talk to anyone—especially Dean—she’d taken care of her Head Girl duties, then slipped quickly through the common room to dash up the dormitory steps, even though she could tell that he was waiting for her.

Still not ready to deal with him this morning, she had sat several seats down and across the table, refusing to let him catch her eye. But she couldn’t help overhearing McGonagall when she approached.

“Mr. Thomas, I’ve been contacted this morning by a reporter who wishes to interview you for the _Daily Prophet_. She asked that I have you contact her straight away.”

At the word reporter, Ginny’s head snapped up and all of the blood rushed from her face. She paid no attention when her fork slipped from her suddenly numb fingers and clattered to the floor. Dean was watching her. She stared back, unable to breathe. They both knew what this was about.

He turned back to Professor McGonagall. “A reporter? What does she want?”

“She wasn’t specific.”

Dean cut his eyes quickly to Ginny, then back to the headmistress. “Who did you say it was?”

“Rita Skeeter.” Professor McGonagall looked as if the words had left a sour taste in her mouth.

Ginny couldn’t help sending Dean a pleading look when he flicked his eyes back toward her.

He gave McGonagall a steady look. “I don’t think I have anything to say to her, Professor.”

“Very well. I shall let her know.” McGonagall looked pleased as she turned briskly toward the entrance hall.

Ginny stared at her plate as she willed her breathing and heart rate back into a steady rhythm. She looked up only when the mail arrived and two owls settled before her to deliver their letters—one from Harry and one from her mystery antagonist (they were coming daily, now). When Dean moved into the seat directly across from her, she stuffed the unopened envelopes into her pocket and looked up. They stared at each other in awkward silence for a few moments before speaking at the same time.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ginny looked at her hands folded in her lap as he took over the conversation. “You’re welcome and I’m a git. I had no right to act the way I did, no matter how obnoxious Potter was being.”

She raised her face to look at him fully and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, you are a git.”

He eyed her uncertainly. “You’re still cross.”

“Yes. But I’ll get over it.” At his downcast look she added. “Don’t worry. I’m still peeved with Harry, too.”

“Yeah, I heard.” He smirked a bit. “The whole castle heard.”

She couldn’t suppress her smile. “I guess I did get a bit wound up, didn’t I?”

“He deserved it.” When her eyes narrowed, he quickly added, “We both did.”

“You both seem to have forgotten that I have some say in the matter.”

Dean smiled. “You’re right. What was it you said? You’re not a piece of property?”

Ginny smiled fully for the first time in two days. “I _was_ beginning to feel a bit like a bone between two crups.”

Dean sobered. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that,” he said quietly. “But I’m not sorry about what I told Harry. I meant what I said. If he mucks up and you need me, I’m here.”

Ginny opened her mouth then closed it again, unsure of how to respond. She was saved the trouble when Neville slid into the seat next to her.

“Ginny, Professor Slughorn is looking for you.”

“Oh, no,” she groaned dropping her face into her hands. “I must have missed something important in class yesterday.”

Dean snorted. “Like you’d have to worry about that.”

“I don’t—” Neville started before Ginny cut him off.

“Why wouldn’t I have to worry?” She looked up, rising to Dean’s bait. “I skived off yesterday. All of my teachers are probably looking for me. I’m surprised McGonagall didn’t take my Head Girl badge when she was standing here.”

“I don’t think—” Neville tried again before Dean interrupted.

“Yeah, the other teachers might be angry, but Slughorn? Ginny, all you’d have to do is give him that look you do and he’d brew your potions and write your essays for you. Everyone knows you’re his favorite because ‘you and Harry remind me so much of Lily and James’.” He said this last in a perfect imitation of the Potions Master’s voice.

“What look? I don’t have a—”

“Ginny!” She and Dean looked at Neville in surprise when he raised his voice to cut into the conversation. “It’s not about class. He’s restarting the Slug Club.”

Ginny’s eyes went wide and her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s even worse!”

“Yeah. And, apparently, cutting off a snake’s head was enough to get me in this time.” Neville’s uncharacteristically sarcastic tone made it clear he wasn’t thrilled with the honor.

Ginny had been a willing member of the dinner club two years earlier, but she knew Harry had gone to great lengths to avoid it, in spite of Slughorn’s best efforts to get him to come. She had a feeling she knew why she might be asked to join this year, and it had nothing to do with a Bat Bogey Hex. “I’d better get out of here,” she said, gathering her things and grabbing a slice of toast to take with her. “Thanks for the warning, Neville.”

Neville scowled. “Don’t thank me yet. I should be hoping he finds you so I don’t have to go by myself.”

“Who else has he got?” Ginny asked as they headed toward the door. Dean was walking down the other side of the long table.

“Luna,” Neville grinned. “At least the dinners will be interesting. And Zabini. And Romilda Vane.”

“What?” Ginny stopped so abruptly Neville ran into the back of her. They just managed not to drop all of their things. She turned to face him and lowered her voice so the students who had looked up at their collision couldn’t hear. “ _Romilda Vane_? Are you having me on?”

“No,” Neville said with a shrug. “He said she’s got—what was it?—leadership potential. Oh, and chutzpah…whatever that is.”

Ginny huffed as they met Dean at the end of the table and moved quickly toward the entrance hall. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. That’s not what _I’d_ call it.”

The three of them had got through the front doors and headed around the castle to the greenhouses when Neville snapped his fingers. “That’s it. I knew there was one other name I couldn’t remember. Lisa Turpin.”

Ginny gave him a surprised look. “Lisa Turpin? Why her?”

“Dunno. Her mother’s an artist or something, I think.”

“Whoa!” Dean stopped in front of them, almost causing another collision. “You mean Fiona Flannery’s daughter is here?”

Ginny and Neville exchanged confused looks. “Who’s Fiona Flannery?” they asked in unison.

“You’ve never heard of Fiona Flannery?” Dean looked shocked. “She’s only the greatest Wizarding landscape artist ever. I saw an exhibit of her paintings in Dublin a couple of years ago when I went to visit Seamus for the summer. She’s incredible! She paints these life-sized landscapes that you can step right into. There was this one of the Cliffs of Moher on the west coast of Ireland—I swear you could hear the waves crashing and smell the salt air. And there were other paintings of forests and lakes, and they say that the paintings change every day depending on the weather and the season. The sun and moon even rise and set. It’s just the most amazing thing!”

Ginny had to smile at the glow of wonder on Dean’s face and the way he was practically dancing with excitement. He never got this passionate about anything but art and Quidditch—and maybe Muggle football.

“But how do you know that Lisa’s her daughter?” Neville asked as they began moving toward the greenhouses again.

“She has to be. Fiona Flannery married a businessman named Horatio Turpin back in the sixties, but she kept her own name—some sort of witches’s liberation thing. It never caught on like it did in the Muggle world.” Ginny and Neville shared a confused look and Dean brushed away the thought with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, I know they had a daughter, I just didn’t know she was at Hogwarts.” He shook his head in wonder. “Wow! Fiona Flannery. She’s the greatest artist _ever_.”

“Was.” Ginny gave him a grim look. “She _was_ the greatest artist ever. Lisa told me her mother was killed by Death Eaters during the war.”

“What? No!” Dean looked stricken. He spewed a stream of profanity that would’ve made Charlie blush. “Why? Why would they do that? She wasn’t a threat to anyone. That’s just so... so wrong! The world _needs_ great artists like Fiona Flannery.”

Ginny gave him a sad look as she stepped through the door he was holding open for her. “Maybe so. But Lisa also needs her mother.”

***

With thoughts of Ginny and reporters and goblins fighting for attention in his head, Harry finally gave up on sleep and rose before dawn. He left a note for Fleur to contact Ginny about the _Daily Prophet_ ’s Hogwarts correspondent and Flooed to the Ministry as the sky was beginning to lighten. There was only one O’Malley listed on the roster of Ministry employees in the Atrium—O’Malley, B., Department for Magical Law Enforcement, Room 205, Cubicle 10.

Donning his Invisibility Cloak, he waited in Room 205, Cubicle 10 for O’Malley to arrive. The desk was tidy with none of the personal items set about that most Ministry employees used to liven up their sterile spaces. Harry carefully looked over the stacks of parchment on the desk, but saw nothing to indicate suspicious activity, except perhaps a lack of entries in the diary open to yesterday’s date. Nothing in the cubicle gave an obvious clue about the person who usually occupied it.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Harry backed into the corner in front of the desk, away from the entryway. Several chattering witches went past before one of them finally entered the cubicle. Expecting an eager young wizard wanting to make his mark on the world (like Percy) or an older disgruntled one wanting to take out his frustrations (like Peter Pettigrew), Harry was surprised to find that B. O’Malley was a pretty young witch whose fashionable robes, he suspected, cost much more than a clerk’s salary could usually afford.

She hung her cloak on a peg right next to where Harry stood and went through the motions of settling in for the workday. He watched her for a few moments, a vague memory tickling the back of his mind. She seemed familiar. In a way, she reminded him of Tonks, but her hair was long, dark, and curly instead of pink and spiky. Then it hit him. She was the one who’d chatted him up in the lift a few weeks earlier. When she’d stepped right up to run her fingers through his hair and look at his scar, he’d passed off the experience as just another aggressive female chasing a celebrity. But now he realized that she’d more likely been collecting a bit of him for the Polyjuice Potion.

She stepped out of the cubicle with her teacup and Harry seized the opportunity to go through the pockets of her cloak—he found nothing. With the time for his morning training session drawing near, he slipped out when she came back and settled into her chair.

Harry spent the better part of the morning trying to decide what to do. From the time he was eleven years old, when a mystery had presented itself he’d relied on his own wits to solve it. The few times he’d tried to get help from the adults in his life, he’d been told not to worry about such things—the Philosopher’s Stone was in no danger and the Chamber of Secrets didn’t exist, and he shouldn’t pay any mind to Voldemort’s thoughts and feelings that were haunting his days and nights. In the end, Dumbledore had handed him the biggest mystery ever and sent him on his way to stumble through finding the answers with help from only Ron and Hermione. Could it be any wonder, then, that it rarely crossed his mind to seek advice or assistance from authority figures?

But he was training to be an Auror now, and things were different. Last summer, when he’d gone off to rescue Ginny from Greyback, he’d been reprimanded for taking matters into his own hands—Shacklebolt and Robards had emphasized the importance of working within the system. Harry knew he should follow protocol and take Malfoy’s information directly to Robards—but every instinct he had was telling him to keep this to himself until he could get all of the answers.

The battle raged in his head until his temples throbbed. His classmates used his distraction to their advantage in every training exercise.

He finally fell back on the one consistent piece of advice he’d ever been given—do the right thing, not the easy thing. As an Auror trainee, the right thing was to report to Robards, even if it wasn’t easy to turn things over to someone else. In fact, the thought grated on Harry’s nerves, but when his class took a mid-morning break, he made himself hurry to the Head Auror’s office before he changed his mind.

“Yeah,” Robards barked without looking up from the parchment he was writing on.

Harry closed the door and stood before the desk. “I need to report some information I was given last night—about Greyback’s death.”

Robards stopped writing and looked up. Harry paused, trying to think of how to say enough without saying too much.

After a moment Robards growled impatiently, “Well? Today?”

Harry drew a deep breath and plunged in. “Someone inside the Ministry was paid to provide the rope and perform an Imperius Curse.”

Robards snorted and turned his attention back to his parchment. “Tell me something I don’t know. If that’s all you got—”

“Her name is O’Malley. She’s a clerk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Robards leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his expansive chest, a look of interest in his eyes. “Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. Where did you get this information?”

Harry shuffled uncomfortably. “I can’t say.”

“You can’t say. Some bloke—or bird—just stopped you on the street and told you this?”

Harry gave him a steady look. “Actually, it was in a park.”

Robards considered him carefully for a few moments. “What else?”

“She’s being paid to provide information—”

“Who’s paying her?”

“Dolohov.”

“Dolohov? He died in the final battle.”

“Not according to my source,” Harry said.

Robards stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Anything else?”

Harry thought for a moment and decided to see how this played out before sharing anything more. “Not at the moment.”

Robards eyed him warily. Harry quickly blanked his mind—he’d always suspected the Auror might be a Legilimens. “All right, Potter. I’ll check into it. You let me know if you hear anything more from your... source.” Robards waved a hand toward the door. “Now get back to your training session.”

Harry opened the door, then paused before going out. “You’ll let me know what you find out?”

He had to be satisfied with Robards’s non-committal grunt.

***

Ginny had successfully avoided Horace Slughorn for two days. She veered from castle corridors into secret passages when she saw him coming. She enlisted Winky’s help with meals (of which she ate little anyway) so she wouldn’t have to go the Great Hall. She skulked around corners and hid in bathrooms and buried herself in the library and common room. She’d even made use of the Room of Requirement, turning it into a combination of her bedroom and the sitting room at the Burrow, complete with a bed and a comfy couch in front of a cozy fireplace (she had to fight the urge to stay there too much so Luna could use _her_ room).

But, in the end, there was no way to avoid Slughorn when it came time for her Thursday afternoon Potions class. She did her best, though, slipping in at the last possible second and getting Dean to save her a place at a table close to the door so she could sneak out quickly when class was over. But Slughorn was having none of it. He accosted her right in the middle of the lesson.

“Ginny, m’dear! I finally catch up with you. You’ve been a very busy young lady, haven’t you?”

Ginny squirmed under his scrutiny. “I’m really sorry I missed class Monday. I wasn’t feeling well—”

Slughorn waved his hand dismissively. “No worries. I know you’ll make the work up in no time and with top marks. What I wanted to discuss is the dinner party I’m planning for Saturday evening. My guest list wouldn’t be complete without you.”

Ginny tried to look appropriately disappointed. “I’m sorry, Professor. I can’t come Saturday. I—er, already have other plans.”

“Oh, that’s right! Harry will be here, won’t he?” Slughorn smiled so smugly, Ginny knew he hadn’t _just_ remembered. In fact, it rather confirmed her suspicion that Harry was the reason she had been invited. “Well, you must bring him along. He was a member of the Slug Club before all that bother with You-Know-Who. I know he’ll want to come.”

Ginny struggled to find a polite way out of the invitation, especially with every eye and ear in the classroom trained on them. She finally decided that honesty just might work best. Leaning close to Slughorn, she lowered her voice as if sharing a confidence. “I don’t know, Professor. You see, Harry and I... we had a bit of a row the last time he was here, and... well, with Quidditch Saturday, we won’t have a lot of time to—um—talk.” She gave a heavy sigh and turned sad eyes on the professor. “Of course, that’s if he comes at all. It was more than a _bit_ of a row, actually.”

“Oh, dear me,” Slughorn said with a sympathetic look. “We can’t have that. Would you like to come to my office to use the Floo?”

Dean looked away to hide his smile as Ginny tried to keep the dismay off her face. “Er—I don’t think he’ll be home now, Professor. He’s got Auror training until late in the evening. I’ve written him a letter. I’m sure he’ll answer by the end of the week.” It was only a small lie. Harry had actually written three letters this week, but none of them had directly addressed anything in her letter. He’d mostly just apologized over and over and over.

“Well, you let me know if I need to have a word with him. We can’t have our favorite couple splitting up, now can we? We’ll see the two of you Saturday evening for dinner. You can slip out early to—um—talk.” He gave her an exaggerated wink and patted her shoulder.

As he toddled back to the front of the classroom, she turned her frustration on Dean. “Well, you were no help!” she hissed.

Dean threw up his hands in defense. “Don’t look at me. I’m not important enough to be invited. Why should I stand in your way?”

She scowled at him and went back to concentrating on her potion.

***

At the end of his last class on Friday, Harry waited until the other students had filed out before furtively casting locking and muffling charms on the door. He’d taken only a few steps toward the front of the room when Robards spoke.

“No, Potter, we haven’t been able to pin anything on Bridget O’Malley yet.”

Harry grimaced, as much at Robards’s ability to read him as the fact that they hadn’t found anything in a week’s time. He had to wonder how hard they were trying.

“Have you checked her bank account—”

“We’ve looked into it,” Robards said tersely. “She comes from a reasonably wealthy family in Ireland and there’s nothing unusual about her recent deposits.”

“Have you—”

“We’re keeping an eye on her, Potter. You’ve done your duty, now stay out of it.”

“But—”

“I said stay out of it… unless you want me to give you extra duty this weekend so I can keep an eye on _you_?”

Harry snapped his lips into a thin line and carefully pushed the anger and resentment from his face. Robards knew how Harry spent his weekends. “No, sir. I won’t be bothered with O’Malley this weekend.”

Robards eyed him speculatively for a moment before seeming satisfied. “Good. See that you aren’t.”

Harry bit back an irritated retort and turned on his heel. He forced himself to close the door slowly to keep from slamming it, as he would’ve preferred. They weren’t taking this seriously. They didn’t mind pouring Ministry resources into having two Aurors tail _him_ night and day, but when a real threat emerged, they couldn’t be arsed to search it out.

On the other hand, maybe there was no threat at all. Maybe Malfoy had sent him on a wild hinkypunk chase. But Harry’s gut was telling him differently. As much as he hated to admit it, something in the way Malfoy had looked that night had rung true. If Malfoy was right about the goblin conspiracy, things could get bad very quickly.

Harry growled in frustration as he stepped from the lift and headed toward the Atrium Floo stations. His trip to Gringott’s on Wednesday—ostensibly to get some money but really to see if he could get a sense of the goblins’s mind-set—had yielded no information, only hostile glares from the goblin who’d escorted him to his vault. He had to find another way to get to the bottom of this.

When he stepped from the grate into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Fleur was gathering her things to leave for the day.

“’Arry! I am glad to see you before I go.” She launched into a litany of messages and appearance requests and a report on the search for a new publicist (which, from what he could tell, wasn’t going well because no one could meet her standards). He managed to respond in the right places, but his mind had taken off on a tangent.

“Fleur?” he said as he realized what he needed to do. But she was in full-on publicist mode and he had to shout to get her attention. “Fleur!” She stopped in mid-syllable and looked up at him in surprise. “What are you and Bill doing for supper tonight? I’d like to take you out.”

“That is very sweet, ‘Arry, but there is no need—”

“No, I want to.” Harry scrambled for a good reason that would make her agree. He needed to talk to Bill without making an obvious point about it. “I overheard a reporter tell her editor what a good publicist you are, that you really know your stuff. They didn’t know I was there, so I know they weren’t just saying it to impress me. It made me realize how much I’ve been taking you for granted. I’d like to take you and Bill to supper as a way to say thank you.”

He watched as she drew herself up and lifted her nose, a look of haughty pride stealing across her face. “But of course I am good. I am the best!”

Harry took a conciliatory tone. “ _I_ know that. I want you to know that I know it and that I appreciate it. Floo Bill and let me take you to supper. You can pick the restaurant. Any one you want.”

Her eyes took on an eager gleam. “ _Any_ one?”

“Yes. Any one.”

He didn’t understand the stream of excited French that followed, but before he knew it Fleur had flicked a Patronus from her wand and Apparated the two of them to the garden of what looked like an old country manor.

“Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons,” she sighed. “The only restaurant in all of Britain that serves exquisite cuisine.”

“And the only one that serves anything Fleur will eat,” Bill said as he came quietly up behind them. “This place is pretty posh, Harry. I had to save for three months to bring her here when I proposed and then I could afford only dinner. Didn’t have enough to stay the night. Are you sure about this?”

Harry grinned. “I’m sure. Only the best for the best publicist in Britain.”

As they made their way up the drive, Bill explained that the property, situated about an hour by train north of London, had originally been known as Great Milton Manor and dated back to the 13th century. Through the years, it had been carefully restored and expanded to maintain its ancient rustic, but elegant, charm. The current owners were Wizards who continued to run the restaurant and inn as a Muggle business, but catered to Wizard trade with a secluded wing protected by Muggle-repelling charms.

When they stepped into the circle of light at the front door, Harry realized that Fleur had at some point transfigured their clothing into dress robes. The word posh took on new meaning when a gentleman in formal attire opened the door upon an extravagantly decorated entry hall.

“May I ’elp you?” the man asked in a stilted tone that even his French accent couldn’t soften. In fact, everything about the man was stiff, from his severe expression and rigid posture to his pencil thin mustache and his severely slicked hair.

“Yes, we’d like a table, please,” Harry said, trying to sound confident.

The man looked down his straight nose. “You ’ave a reservation?”

Harry blinked. He hadn’t considered the need for a reservation. Shoulders sagging, he turned to suggest that Fleur choose another restaurant. But before he could open his mouth, she had stepped forward, her back as stiff and straight as the maître d’s, her head tilted back so she could look with disdain down her own nose.

_"'Arry Potter n'a pas besoin de résérvation.”_ *

Harry wasn’t sure exactly what Fleur had said, but he cringed and resisted the impulse to cover his scar as the man’s eyes went wide and snapped toward it. If he hadn’t been irritated by the turn of events, Harry would’ve laughed at the speed with which the man’s face and body relaxed as he bowed low.

“’Arry Potter! Please, sir, accept my deepest apologies for not recognizing you. I am Claude and it will be my pleasure to serve you this evening. Please, follow me.”

Head held high, Fleur paraded after him like a queen claiming her throne. Harry followed, shaking his head and muttering to Bill, “I hate doing that.”

Bill chuckled. “Look at it this way. You didn’t do it. She did. When Fleur wants something, she doesn’t mind pulling strings to get it. That’s what makes her good at what she does.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s why we’re here, isn’t it,” Harry conceded grudgingly. “Might as well enjoy it.”

Bill clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit!” He leaned in conspiratorially. “By the way, mate, thanks for doing this. She’s been really tired lately and a bit depressed, I think, about all the changes she’s going through with the baby. This seems to have cheered her up.”

Heat consumed Harry’s face. He didn’t want to think about what changes Fleur was going through. She didn’t look pregnant and, unless she said something, Harry usually forgot that she was. Although he knew the basics about how a woman got that way, he’d never been around anyone who was going to have a baby—and he was positive he didn’t need to know all of the details just yet.

He realized his discomfort must have shown on his face when Bill laughed and slapped him on the shoulder again.

“It’s not quite so scary as all that. And you’ve got a while before you have to worry about it, anyway, yeah?”

Harry’s face heated even more when Bill eyed him carefully and added, “You’d _better_ not have to worry about it. I don’t want to have to hex you.” His wink did nothing to contradict the serious tone in his voice.

Harry gulped and shook his head quickly. “No worries.”

Bill nodded with a grim smile of approval and moved forward to walk beside Fleur. Harry trailed closely behind as they wound their way through the elegant dining room. Most of the tables were filled and, although Harry kept his head down, the inevitable wave of murmurs followed them. He was relieved when Claude finally showed them to a secluded nook that hid them from curious stares while offering a fabulous view of the manor’s expansive gardens.

When they were settled, the wait staff moved quietly and fluidly about, anticipating every need. By the middle of the meal, Harry found himself relaxing into the casual conversation dominated by Fleur’s oddly intermingled discussions about the search for a new publicist and preparations for the baby. One moment she was regaling Harry with the shortcomings of the latest candidates and the next, comparing colors and furnishings for the nursery with Bill.

After a bit, Harry stopped trying to follow the patter and began to notice the interplay between his dinner companions; Ron would call it foreplay—Harry’s face heated at the thought. Bill had a soft look about his face, listening carefully as she spoke, watching her every move as if she were the most precious treasure in the world, looking for opportunities to stroke her skin or brush back a stray wisp of hair. And his attentions melted Fleur into someone Harry hardly recognized—the fierce and haughty lioness was transfigured into a purring kitten, murmuring French endearments and flirting playfully with her husband as if they were the only ones in the room.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he watched them, his insides gnawing with a familiar hunger that food couldn’t satisfy. It was the same feeling he got when he saw Ron and Hermione sharing intimate glances and whispered endearments, a longing that he usually tamped down so he wouldn’t have to consider it too carefully. But tonight the feeling wouldn’t be ignored and, with sudden clarity, he understood: he wanted—needed—to belong to someone.

From the time he was a baby, he’d longed to be part of a family, to have friends and loved ones who cared for him. Ron and Hermione had filled that need when he was younger, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had served as surrogate parents with all of their children acting the part of siblings. From the moment they’d all accepted him, he’d marveled at the wonder of it. And it had been enough…for a while.

But now, the feeling was changing, the need shifting and deepening. Without warning, thoughts of Ginny flooded his mind. As usual his body stirred in response, but he knew his desire for her was more than physical. He needed to _belong_ to her, to share himself completely with her.

The thought sent his mind spinning. He had told Ginny he loved her and he meant it. But he knew he’d been holding himself back, just as he had always done. Even with Ron and Hermione, the two people he trusted most in the world, he stayed always at the ready to put up the protective emotional shields he’d perfected since early childhood. But he was beginning to understand that to have what Ron and Hermione had, what Bill and Fleur had, he was going to have to open himself, make himself completely vulnerable to Ginny—

“Harry?”

Harry snapped his eyes into focus at Bill, who appeared to be waiting for an answer to some unheard question. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Bill gave Fleur a knowing smirk. “I told you he was already on his way to Hogwarts.”

Harry looked at his plate as his face flamed.

“Leave ’im alone, Bill,” Fleur said sternly. “’E has brought us ’ere for a lovely dinner. You should not take the mickey away from ’im.”

Bill laughed. “You’re right, love. Sorry, mate. I asked how the Auror training was going.”

Relieved at the change in topic, Harry launched into an enthusiastic description of his classes and training sessions, all the while trying to think of the best way to turn the conversation to the topic he’d brought them here to discuss in the first place.

“So, how are things at Gringott’s?” Harry finally asked.

“A sight better now that the repairs are complete,” Bill said with a wry smile. “You lot really did a thorough job. It took us forever to get all the protective charms back in place.”

“Yeah, I was there on Wednesday. I got the feeling they weren’t too thrilled to see me,” Harry said. “I wish it hadn’t been necessary, but I’d do it again if I had to.”

“Oh, no worries. No one blames you now, though it was touchy for a bit. The goblins weren’t very happy, to put it mildly. At first, they talked about seizing your vault to cover the damages. But you apparently made quite the impression on Griphook last spring. He spoke in your defense—even if it was a bit grudging. And what with the Wizarding world celebrating the end of the war, they decided taking your fortune wouldn’t do much to help goblin-wizard relations.”

Ah, this was what he had come for. Harry seized the opening. “So they want to improve relations? Griphook didn’t sound so positive about that last spring.”

“Well, they give lip service to it, but I don’t know. They seem a bit restless since the war—more than they did before anyway. I reckon they were hoping the new Ministry would take a stronger stance against goblin discrimination. Shacklebolt still hasn’t found anyone to replace Cresswell in the Liaison Office. I hope he gets on that soon.”

“Maybe you should offer for the job,” Harry said with a sly grin. “I could put in a good word for you.”

Bill held up both hands and shook his head. “No thanks. It pays half what I make now, and with a baby on the way? I think I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing. I might even be more effective where I am.”

Harry nodded, then returned to the topic at hand. “So, do you think they’re planning anything? The goblins, I mean? With the Ministry still rebuilding, now would be the time to do something if they were going to, wouldn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think they’re up to anything. At least I hope not.” Bill gave Harry a speculative look. “Why? Have you heard something?”

Harry paused a moment to gather his thoughts. He didn’t need to give too much away yet. “Nothing official,” he said after a bit. “Just some rumors.”

“I’ll keep my ears open, then,” Bill said, but continued to eye him curiously.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Harry said as he rose from his chair. “Listen, I need to get home and take care of a few things. Why don’t you stay for a while, get some pudding, finish the wine? I’ll take care of the bill on my way out.”

After a flurry of handshakes and kisses, Harry made his way to the door.

“Monsieur Potter, I trust your dinner was satisfactory?” Claude asked when Harry arrived in the foyer.

“Yeah, it was great,” Harry said. “But I need a favor.”

“I am at your service,” Claude said with a click of his heels and a small bow.

“Can you get a room for my friends? They got married just before the war last year and never got a proper honeymoon. I’d like to give them a late wedding gift.”

“Consider it done,” Claude said.

“Thanks. Just let them know after I leave, okay?”

Harry looked across the dining room to where Bill and Fleur had already shut out the rest of the world. He sighed, the emptiness hollowing out his chest once more. He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly when his glance fell on another familiar face among the crowd.

Bridget O’Malley was chatting up a tall man with dark, graying hair. The man’s back was to the room, so Harry couldn’t see his face, but he did see an opportunity that he couldn’t pass up.

“Claude, could you point me to the loo?” he asked.

“Down this corridor and to your right.”

Harry made his way into the bathroom and waited for the one occupant to leave before throwing his Invisibility Cloak over himself and heading back to the dining room. Dodging waiters, he slipped between tables to stand against the wall next to O’Malley.

“I told you I’d get it. I just need a little more time,” she said.

“We don’t have any more time.” Harry didn’t recognize the man, whose face was red and fists were clenched with tightly controlled anger. If they hadn’t been in a crowded restaurant, Harry was sure O’Malley would be sporting a black eye by now.

O’Malley gave her companion a brilliant smile, although her eyes remained hard. “I’ll have it by the end of next week. It’s the best I can do. I can’t just waltz up and take it like I did the others, you know. He’s too well protected.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll handle it,” she said as she stood. He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her fair skin. She gave him a pointed look. “I need the loo. I’ll be right back.”

“You’d better be,” he growled.

She patted his arm as she went past him. Harry followed her, but when she reached the ladies’ toilet, she kept going down the hall and out a side exit. At the end of the drive, with a quick turn, she was gone.

Harry stared at the empty spot and thought fleetingly that her friend wasn’t going to be happy. Malfoy had been proved right. Now, all Harry had to do was convince Robards without getting himself sacked.

He dug his D.A. Galleon from his pocket and changed the date and time—Sunday at midnight.

~~~

* _"Harry Potter does not need a reservation."_

 


	9. Catching the Snitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry returns to Hogwarts in time for the Gryffindor-Slytherin match, but Ginny reaches a stunning realization that could change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has a bit of not-TOO-graphic naked interaction (aka sex).

Ginny paced restlessly up and down the hallway in front of the gargoyle, fingers nervously working her lightning bolt pendent up and down its chain, Quidditch robes billowing with every pivot. Dean wanted the team to eat breakfast together, but she simply had to talk to Harry before the match or she’d be good for nothing.

Ginny was convinced that Romilda was the one leaking information to the press; she just couldn’t prove it. The account of her row with Harry had made it into the _Prophet_ in amazing detail (although the paper had been half a day late for reasons no one could explain), and the castle gossip network had been hard at work twisting and enhancing the story as the week progressed. With each passing day, her anger at Harry had dwindled and she had become increasingly desperate to touch him, to know what he was thinking and how he was feeling.

When he finally descended the moving staircase, she launched herself at him before he was off the bottom step.

“I’ve missed you so much. This was the longest week ever,” she whispered in his ear as she clung to his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he answered before covering her mouth with his.

“Harry! Oh, man, am I glad to see you! Are you coming to breakfast?”

Ginny groaned. Dennis Creevey was going to die.

“We’ll be down in a minute, Dennis,” Harry said patiently, not turning to look or moving his mouth any further away from hers than was necessary to form the words.

“But—”

“Go away, Dennis!” Ginny turned a blazing glare at him.

He raised his hands in surrender and backed away. “Okay. No problem. See you downstairs.”

Harry started to draw her close again, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall. “Let’s find someplace private,” she said over her shoulder.

They made it to the Gryffindor portrait hole just as the rest of the team emerged. With a blank glance at them, Dean turned toward the stairs.

Harry watched him go, his brows furrowed in thought. “I suppose I should go apologize to him.”

“No,” Ginny said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I want to make you happy.”

“It won’t make me happy if you do it just because you think I want you to. It’s better to just let it be.”

He studied her carefully for a moment. She wondered if he was trying to decide whether or not to believe her. He finally just squeezed her hand and said, “We should go down.”

She wanted to protest, to drag him off to the Room of Requirement and make the rest of the world go away. But she knew if she didn’t go down now, she wouldn’t be able to go at all. Just the thought of spending the next several hours on a broom made her tired. With a heavy sigh, she nodded and let him guide her toward the stairs.

Once they were seated in the Great Hall, they had no chance to talk with each other. Dennis Creevey was a bundle of nervous energy over his first-ever match and kept Harry occupied with a steady stream of questions about strategy and worries about technique. As the team chatter rose to fever pitch, Ginny tried to dredge up some enthusiasm. Instead, she found herself feeling completely disinterested and detached from the excitement growing around her. For the first time in her memory, she simply didn’t care about Quidditch.

She didn’t care about Quidditch.

The realization left her grasping for a sense of reality. What was wrong with her? She’d _always_ been excited about Quidditch. Watching, playing, it didn’t matter. Quidditch was Quidditch. Her brothers had infused her with a love of the game almost from the moment of her birth—in fact, her mother said Ginny had got caught up in their enthusiasm even before that. But, now, unable to tap into the energy flowing around her, she felt like she’d lost a part of herself.

Panic began to set in. Dean was counting on her to set the pace for the Chasers, but her limbs felt like lead and her brain seemed to be floating above her head.

“Ginny, are you all right?” Dean looked worriedly across the table. “You look pale as a ghost.”

Harry’s head snapped toward her, but she waved them both off with a tight laugh. “I’m fine. Just a bit of nerves. I just need to eat something. I think I forgot to come to supper last night.”

Dean pushed the platter of sausages toward her. “Here. We don’t need you falling off your broom in the middle of the match.”

She took a sip of pumpkin juice and grabbed a slice of toast. Harry ignored Creevey to eye her anxiously. Dean continued his conversation with the Beaters, Ritchie Cootes and Jimmy Peakes, but kept throwing worried glances her way.

Hunger. That must be it. She’d be fine once she got something into her stomach. She really couldn’t remember the last time she ate. The toast scraped its way down her throat. A wash of juice forced it into her stomach, but, once there, it pitched violently, threatening to retrace its path. She closed her eyes and drew several deep breaths to calm her roiling insides.

“Ginny?” Harry put his hand on hers. “Are you okay?”

She opened her eyes and nodded. “I’ll be fine once I get into the air.”

He frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t be on a broom if you aren’t feeling well.”

“I’m fine!” she said irritably. “I just need some air. Let’s go on down to the pitch.”

She stood, but had to grab the table as a wave of dizziness washed over her. Harry reached out to steady her. She shook him off and headed for the door. He caught up as she stepped from the castle entrance into the heavily overcast day. Leaden clouds hung ominously low and the wind was beginning to pick up. They walked quickly and silently across the lawn. By the time they reached the changing rooms, she was breathing easier and the lightheadedness had eased.

The pitch was deserted. No doubt the students were waiting until the last moment so they wouldn’t have to sit in the rain longer than necessary. Pulling Harry around the corner of the building, Ginny pushed him against the wall and snuggled close to him. He wrapped his arms around her as she tucked her face against his neck and inhaled. This was what she’d been craving all week—the feel of his heart beating next to hers, the warm male scent of him. She melted into him with a sigh. If she never had to move again, she would be perfectly content.

“Are you really okay?” he murmured against her hair.

She nodded against him.

He pushed her back and tilted her head so he could look into her eyes. “You’re sure? You do look awfully pale.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. Here. I’ll prove it.”

She pressed her lips and body to his, molding herself to him, running her fingers into his hair. With a soft moan, he drew her more tightly to him. Within moments, the world had faded away and Ginny was aware of nothing but Harry—his taste that melted like sugar on her tongue, his body that fit so perfectly against hers, his strong arms that made her feel loved and safe.

“Oi!”

At the sound of Dean’s voice, they separated breathlessly.

“Team meeting. Now!”

With a growl of frustration, Ginny rested her head on Harry’s shoulder. She didn’t want to waste their precious time together chasing a stupid ball in the rain.

“Are you ready?” His low voice brought her back from the pleasant place her brain had taken her.

She heaved a great sigh. “I suppose.”

With a final lingering kiss, she led them around the corner, her arm still wrapped tightly around his waist. She looked up in surprise when he stopped at the door.

“He said team meeting,” Harry said. “I’m not on the team.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “No. He’s captain. He doesn’t need me there now.”

She gave him a desperate look. “ _I_ need you there.”

“I can’t, Ginny. I’ll be here after the match. Just... score lots of goals, okay?” He glanced anxiously through the door at Dennis Creevey pacing back and forth in front of the lockers. “Just in case.”

Clinging to him, she worked to control the overwhelming sense of dread building inside her. She couldn’t seem to push away the feeling that something horrible was going to happen unless she kept him by her side.

“Ginny?” He was looking at her as if he thought she might fall apart at any moment.

She stiffened her spine and tiptoed to kiss him. “I’m fine. See you after the match.”

With a tight smile, she reluctantly released him to go join her teammates.

***

Harry stared at the closed door. Something was off. He’d never known Ginny to be nervous before a match. And now that he was paying proper attention, he could see that Fleur and Hermione were right—Ginny was far too thin and she looked exhausted. He wondered how many other meals she had "forgotten" to eat.

Phrases from her letter wound their way through his mind: _Things have been very hard here this year… I haven’t been sleeping well… I don’t feel much like myself anymore and I don’t like who I’ve become… I live for the weekends… It’s the only time I feel happy._

Frustration at the inability to act coursed through him. He couldn’t wait for the match to be over.

The rain began to come down in earnest as the students trickled from the castle. Harry fell into step beside Neville and Luna. With a quick Impervius charm to his glasses, he pulled up the hood of his cloak and sat down next to Neville, paying little attention to the students around him as he worried over Ginny and the match.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Harry dragged himself from his thoughts and grimaced as Romilda Vane settled herself on the bench next to him, much closer than was really necessary. He realized, too late, that he was surrounded by her faithful followers. Madam Hooch was releasing the Quaffle, so he slipped a bit closer to Neville and turned his attention to the match.

Things started off badly and got worse. Ginny should have easily grabbed the Quaffle on the release, but it slipped through her fingers. One of the Slytherin Chasers seized it and made for the goal. Within ten minutes, the score was Slytherin-30, Gryffindor-0.

Even accounting for the rain, which had become torrential, Ginny was off her game—way off. Harry had never seen her play so badly. She was a fierce competitor, even when they were just mucking about in the orchard behind the Burrow. But today, it seemed as though the Quaffle had been charmed to avoid her. The few times she managed to catch it, hang onto it, and take a shot at the goal, she missed spectacularly. She seemed sluggish and distracted. Harry kicked himself for not making her eat a proper breakfast.

After only thirty minutes, the score was 90 to 10—the single Gryffindor goal made by Demelza Robbins. As captain of his first match and trying to pay attention to everything on the field, Dean wasn’t any more help with scoring than Ginny. Harry began to search wildly for the Snitch. Creevey needed to end this thing now.

The two Seekers were making lazy circles above the action, the tiny ball still invisible in the gloomy downpour.

“Gryffindor doesn’t look so good today. The Chasers seem to be having a hard time, don’t you think? Do you s’pose it’s the rain?”

Harry dragged his eyes from the sky to glance briefly at Romilda before quickly turning back to the players above. “Yeah, it’s the rain,” he said absently and went back to looking for the Snitch.

“I really hate rain. Do you know a charm that would keep it off of us?”

Harry looked at her quickly, then back to the sky. “No. Sorry.”

“Would you mind if I sat a bit closer to you so it doesn’t blow in my face so much?”

Irritated at the constant distraction, Harry kept his eyes on the match and struggled to keep his tone polite. “You could go back to the castle, if it’s bothering you.”

He missed what she said next as he jumped to his feet and groaned with the rest of the crowd when Ginny missed a pass from Dean, then was nearly knocked from her broom by a Bludger. Harry held his breath while she righted herself and headed back into the action, but then shouted several impolite phrases at Dean who was following Ginny, obviously going ballistic. Harry knew that Dean, as captain, had every right—even a responsibility—to blast players who weren’t paying attention, but it rankled to watch him do it to Ginny when she was clearly not feeling well. They should never have let her play.

Slytherin scored six more times in the next twenty minutes, making the score 150 to 10. The driving rain didn’t seem to be fazing them a bit. Harry wondered what charms they were using to neutralize the weather in their favor.

When Ginny fumbled another pass, Demelza scrambled to catch the loose Quaffle. Slytherin made an easy steal and sped toward the opposite end of the pitch.

Suddenly, Harry saw it.

The Snitch winked dully into view a foot from the ground in the middle of the pitch. Creevey saw it, too. Turning his broom into a nearly vertical dive, he side-swiped the Slytherin Seeker who was soon hot on his tail.

Harry concentrated with all his might, willing Creevey to move faster. If Creevey could catch the Snitch before Slytherin scored, Gryffindor would win.

Creevey pulled gracefully out of his dive. The two Seekers flew neck-and-neck after the faint gold speck, bumping and shoving, elbows and knees flying.

Overhead, the Slytherin Chasers passed the Quaffle with flawless grace through an onslaught of Gryffindor Bludgers. Dean and Demelza flew furiously, nearly colliding with one another as they attempted a steal. All too quickly, the action reached the final Gryffindor line of defense—Euan Abercrombie, the Keeper, and Ginny. Harry tried frantically to watch both ends of the pitch at once.

Creevey slammed into the Slytherin Seeker, sending them both tumbling toward the ground in a tangle.

Slytherin blasted the Quaffle toward the goal. Ginny stretched to make the catch; it bounced off the ends of her fingers. Abercrombie dived desperately for the save; he missed. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the red ball tapped the rim of the center ring and rolled lazily through the opening.

Harry joined in the collective Gryffindor groan. With an angry swipe at her eyes, Ginny took off toward the changing rooms. Harry began to push past Romilda and her cohorts, but stopped in surprise as the stands around him erupted into chaos. Everyone was pointing at the ground, jumping up and down, hugging one another.

Creevey stood in the center of the pitch, holding the Snitch high above his head.

Gryffindor had won.

***

Ginny turned her broom toward the changing rooms. She couldn’t stay until the match was over—she had to get out of here. NOW. Gryffindor would be a player short, but they’d be better off without her anyway.

She ignored the explosion of cheers behind her. Slytherin had probably just sealed the win and she didn’t want to be around to hear the rousing chorus of “Weasley is Our Queen” that was sure to follow. Not only had she played the worst game of her life, she’d actually helped the other team win.

She had jumped from her broom a foot from the ground and taken only a step toward the broom shed when Dean landed behind her and grabbed her arm.

“What the bloody hell were you doing up there?” he yelled.

She snatched her arm from his grasp and kept walking. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He grabbed her again and jerked her around to face him. “Well, we’re going to talk about it. That was the worst performance I’ve ever seen, including Ron’s fifth year. Where was your head? Obviously not in the game!”

“That’s right, Dean. It’s a Weasley trait. I had to live up to the family name and go out there just to make Gryffindor lose. That’s what I live for, to make you look bad.”

“Well, you did a bloody brilliant job of it! I can’t believe—”

“Leave her alone, Dean.” Harry appeared out of the growing crowd to stand protectively in front of Ginny, his voice low but threatening.

“You stay out of this!” Ginny shouted, pushing past Harry to glare at Dean. “You’re right. I effed it up! I lost the match! There! Satisfied? No? Okay, how about this? I quit!”

Ignoring Dean’s and Harry’s shouts, she mounted her broom and took off over the heads of the students wading their way back to the castle.

***

“Great work, Thomas,” Harry said with a scathing look.

He grabbed Creevey’s broom and shot after her, landing at the steps as she slipped through the front doors. Broom still in hand, he dashed after her, though she was already lost from sight before he reached the first landing. He called out to her. The only response was the sound of their labored breathing and rapid footsteps bouncing eerily off the ancient stone of the nearly deserted castle. At the seventh floor, he turned toward Gryffindor Tower, but took only a couple of steps before the echo of footsteps going the opposite direction had him spinning around. He raced after the sound and turned the corner just in time to see Ginny disappear into a door that wasn’t usually there.

The Room of Requirement.

Harry’s heart lurched. If he didn’t make it in, he’d have to wait until she came out, unless he could figure out what she’d asked for—experience told him that wasn’t an option.

With a great lunge, he threw the broom as hard as he could at the opening. The door slammed on it, splintering the handle, but not closing completely. He skidded to a stop inside, kicked the mangled bits of wood out of the way, and slammed the door shut.

Bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, Harry squinted around the dimly lit room searching for Ginny. He could hear her sobbing quietly and finally spotted a flash of red hair over the back of the shabby sofa sitting in front of the fireplace. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to realize that everything looked familiar—the sitting room of the Burrow had been transported to Hogwarts, complete with Mr. Weasley’s sagging armchair and the large wooden wireless. The only thing missing was the sideboard that held Firewhiskey and glasses. Harry wondered if he shouldn’t ask the Room to conjure it. Ginny could probably use a stiff drink. He knew what it was like to feel you’d lost the match for your team.

He walked cautiously around the sofa. She was tucked into the corner of the worn cushions clasping her knees to her chest, face buried in her arms, still dripping and shivering violently. With a wave of his hand, the fireplace blazed to life. He dropped his own dripping cloak to the floor and knelt before her.

“Ginny,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She hugged her knees tighter and shuddered.

“Ginny, you need to get dried off.” He pulled gently on her hand. “Come on, you’re freezing. Stand up.”

She let him pull her up and remove the drenched cloak, but she kept her eyes on the floor. Harry cast a drying charm over her soaked uniform as she shivered uncontrollably.

“We need a blanket,” he said to the Room and a fluffy blue one materialized on the sofa. “Wish we could do that for food,” he muttered as he cast a warming charm on it, wrapped it around her, and settled her on the dry end of the couch.

“W-Winky,” she whispered through her chattering teeth.

He looked down in surprise as the tiny elf popped from thin air next to him.

“Mister Harry Potter, sir!” she squealed joyously and threw her arms around his knees. “Winky is being so glad to be seeing you, sir! Winky is being taking very good care of Harry Potter’s Miss Wheezy.”

As she spotted Ginny swaddled in the blanket, Winky’s eyes went wide. “What is being wrong with Miss Wheezy?”

“She’s just been out in the rain, Winky. Can you bring us some hot soup and maybe some sandwiches?”

“Oh, yes! Winky is being right back, Mister Harry Potter, sir.” She disappeared with a pop.

Harry knelt before Ginny again and removed her sodden boots and socks.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he tucked the blanket around her feet.

He sat in the armchair to take off his own wet shoes and smiled over at her. “Someone needs to take care of you.”

She frowned into the fire. “I don’t need taking care of. I can take care of myself.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Winky popped back in with the food and he busied himself instead with making sure Ginny ate. She finished her soup, but managed only a bite of the sandwich before laying her head on the arm of the sofa and staring into the fire as she toyed with the pendent he’d given her for her birthday—his heart warmed to think that she actually liked his gift enough to still be wearing it.

“He was right, you know,” she said finally.

“Who was right?”

“Dean.”

Harry snorted.

“No,” she said, her voice a bit stronger. “He was right. My head wasn’t in the game. I didn’t want to be out there.”

Harry moved over to the sofa and winced as his bum came in contact with the cold, sopping place where she had first sat. “Budge up,” he said as he lifted her, slipped into the warm spot where she’d been curled, and settled her into his lap.

She snuggled into him, tucking her face into his neck. “I couldn’t pay attention to the game,” she continued quietly, her breath warm against his skin. “All I could think about was that you were talking to Romilda.”

“ _Romilda_ was talking,” he said. “ _I_ was watching the match.”

“Didn’t matter,” she said. “I wanted to be where she was, sitting next to you. I didn’t want to be playing Quidditch.”

“But you love Quidditch.”

Several long moments passed before she responded. “No. I don’t think I do anymore. I meant what I said about quitting.”

“You’re just not feeling well. And the weather—”

“It’s not the weather,” she said irritably, pulling back to look at him. “I just don’t care anymore, okay? It’s a stupid _game_ , for Merlin’s sake. We’ve just been through a war. People died. What effin’ difference does it make who catches a stupid little ball with wings?”

He searched her eyes. She was right, of course. But this was a Ginny he didn’t know; the cynicism and hopelessness he saw in her face worried him.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “It’s not important.”

She looked satisfied and laid her head back on his shoulder.

Harry worked her hair free of its braid so it could dry, then rested his cheek against her head and lost track of the time as he idly ran his fingers through the damp strands. Gradually, he began to notice that the emptiness from the night before was gone. Of course, he’d known all along what it was he longed for, but as he held her now, felt her soft breath against his neck, inhaled her delicate floral scent, he felt as if he had come home from a long journey. Comfortable and contented, he could think of nothing that could make life more wonderful than it was at this minute.

Ginny shifted slightly in his arms and pressed her lips to the sensitive spot below his ear. His sluggish body sprang to life. Okay, maybe there was _one_ more thing that could make life absolutely perfect.

He felt her smile against him as she noticed his reaction. She trailed tiny kisses up to his jaw and he tipped his head to cover her mouth with his. Merlin, she tasted good. His tongue invited hers to dance and he buried his fingers in her hair, wondering briefly—ever so briefly—if he was taking advantage of her weakened state. But the thought flitted away when she purred and began trailing her fingers down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt to work loose the buttons on the front. When her hand splayed across his bare chest, he moaned into her, torn between wanting to encourage her and needing to push her away. If she kept this up, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Ginny,” he said, finally drawing back and breathing heavily. “We have to stop—”

“No.” She pulled him back. “Don’t. Want. To,” she said breathlessly between kisses.

Harry tried desperately to hold on to his self-control, but when she pressed her open mouth to his and wiggled her bum against him, he knew he was lost. So when she suddenly released him and jumped from his lap, he groaned loudly in protest. His addled brain couldn’t quite process that she was trying to pull him up with her.

“Come on, Harry, stand up!”

He followed her blindly across the room and gazed in wonder at the bed that he hadn’t noticed until she pushed him down on it and removed his glasses to set them on the night table. And after a moment, he no longer cared about unexpected furniture or magical rooms, only about the redhead sitting on top of him, struggling to get their clothes off. Once he started helping, it didn’t take long to remove all the barriers.

Oh, she felt so good against him, like pale silk draped around him, fitting perfectly into every curve. But, even so, he couldn’t get close enough to her. The need to fill her, to become part of her, was taking over his entire being. He rolled on top of her and kissed her as if she were his only link to life.

She pulled away, gasping for air. “Harry, please…”

Her voice sounded as desperate as he felt. When she reached down to move him into position, the sensation of his most sensitive spot touching her _there_ jolted him back to reality. The enormity of what she was asking, of what they were doing, hit him like a Bludger.

He pushed up on his elbow and summoned his glasses. He needed to see her face.

“Ginny, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She looked confident, but he hesitated, trying to be sure this wasn’t coming from emotions left over from their argument or the disastrous Quidditch match.

“Yes,” she repeated, her eyes steady, her expression sure.

He studied her for a moment more to be certain. This would be their first time. Well, at least it was his. He hoped it was hers, too, but she’d dated more people than he had. No, he wouldn’t think about that now. She moved impatiently beneath him. He pushed his doubts away and, at her encouraging nod, began to ease into her.

Annoyingly, Ron’s voice began to echo in his head.

_It hurts them the first time, y’know. You have to go slow. There’s a piece of skin or something—Hermione called it the haymen… hymen… something like that. You have to break through it and it hurts like hell. Even after that, you have to take it easy until she gets used to you…_

At the time, Harry had been embarrassed beyond belief by Ron’s drunken recounting of the experience, but he hadn’t been able to overcome his fascinated revulsion to stop the telling. He’d laughed at the image of Hermione giving textbook instructions during such an intimate act. But now, seeing the grimace on Ginny’s face, her eyes closed, bottom lip caught between her teeth, Harry was eternally grateful for the knowledge.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I can stop…”

“It can’t be helped, Harry. Just do it and get it over with.”

He eased in a bit further and met resistance—and breathed out a small sigh of relief. She didn’t seem to notice as she bit down on her lip and drew in a sharp breath.

“Ginny, I—”

“Just _do_ it, Harry.”

The look on her face was killing him, but the feel of her around him was indescribable. He remained still, allowing the battle to rage within.

“Harry—” She looked at him in exasperation.

He closed his eyes and thrust hard, wanting to be sure he had to do it only once. Her whimper of pain escaped through clenched teeth and he lowered himself to hold her close and kiss her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Just give me a minute…”

He nodded against her hair and kissed her neck. He tried to be as still as possible but after a few moments the realization of what they’d done, of where he was, seeped into his brain. Every nerve ending in his body was focused on the feel of her cradling him. The urge to move became almost too much to bear.

“I’m okay, Harry. Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice and body more relaxed.

He pushed himself up on his elbows so he could watch her face as he began to move with slow strokes. She winced, but didn’t cry out.

“Tell me—tell me if I need to stop.”

She nodded and held his gaze steadily.

But as he began moving faster, he was quickly past the point of stopping. Within moments, stars exploded in his head and, with a great shout, he collapsed onto her, shuddering and panting for breath. She wrapped her arms around him and stroked his back until he settled back to earth.

Easing out of her, he gathered her up and poured all of his emotions into a kiss that left them both breathless. He rolled over and pulled her onto his chest, his body still thrumming as they lay quietly for several long moments.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely when he could finally engage his brain and make his voice work. “That wasn’t much fun for you, was it?”

She kissed him and snuggled up under his chin. “No. But it’ll be better next time.”

Next time. She was really going to let him do it again? The thought triggered a reaction he knew she wasn’t ready for yet.

“I love you,” he said, squeezing her tightly.

He could feel her smile against his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

She pushed up on her elbow so she could look into his eyes. “So, how was it for you?”

He couldn’t help the grin that split his face. “Brilliant! Fantastic! Incredible!”

“Better than flying?” she teased.

“Oh, loads better. It was better than snatching the Snitch from under Malfoy’s nose and eating your mum’s treacle tart in celebration. It was better than Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one.” He gave her a mischievous look. “It was better than defeating Voldemort.”

She giggled. “That good, huh?”

“Yeah. That good,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the first time as good for you, too.”

She opened her eyes wide in surprise. “That was your first time?”

It was his turn to be surprised. “Well, yeah. What’d you think?”

She dropped her eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just figured—well, I never knew how far things went with Cho…”

He huffed. “She was too broken up over Cedric and I was too stupid to know what to do then anyway.”

“…and you’ve had all those women throwing themselves at you since the war.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I didn’t mean that! It’s just, well, I grew up with six brothers. And, several of them liked—well, variety.

“Well, I don’t.”

“What about Daphne?”

Harry snorted.

“Well, you dated her.”

“I escorted her to one party and that was a publicity stunt. I didn’t even kiss her goodnight.”

Ginny snuggled back under his chin.

“I’m glad I was your first.”

“And my last.”

Her head popped back up, eyes wide.

He studied her seriously for a moment, then pushed them both up to sit facing each other. Her eyes were wide, questioning. He watched her, wondering if he dared, then the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“I love you, Ginny. Marry me.”

Her mouth fell open, closed, and opened again. Harry held up his hand and a small black box flew from his cloak to his palm. He opened it and held it out for her to see. Nestled in dark green velvet, an oval emerald flanked by heart-shaped diamonds winked from a golden ring. She put her hand over her mouth as a sob escaped and tears welled in her eyes.

“It was my mum’s. I found it in my vault. Look. There’s an inscription.”

Ginny brushed at her tears and squinted at the inside of the ring:

_LE-JP 1978 Love conquers all._

The tears started afresh. “Oh, Harry. It’s beautiful.”

Worried that he’d mucked it up he gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I meant to make it more romantic, like Ron did with Hermione. I should’ve—well—it just kind of slipped out…”

“No!” She was smiling now, to his great relief. “No, it was just right.” She pinned him to the pillows with a kiss that threatened to cut off his air supply.

When they parted, he gave her a quizzical look. “So? Will you?”

“Yes, you prat. Of course, I will.”

As he slipped the ring on her finger, it magically sized to fit her perfectly. He caught his breath at the look on her face.

“Harry Potter, you’ve just made my first time absolutely perfect.”

Her bubbly laugh made him grin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh like that and his heart flipped to know that he’d been able to do that for her. Maybe things were going to be okay after all.


	10. When she’s up, she’s up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny finds secrets and memories to keep as she floats in the afterglow, while Harry gets frustrated by interruptions.

Ginny watched the light dance over and through the ring, sending rainbows skipping from one facet to the next with the slightest movement of her finger. She supposed most girls would want something new, something all their own. But this had been Harry’s mother’s ring and Ginny instinctively knew how much it meant to him. Offering it to her was his way of saying, more than words could ever express, how much he loved her.

She wiggled her finger again and sighed. She wanted to remember every detail of this day forever.

They’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening under the covers perfecting their technique—well, it was still far from perfect, she was sure, but that hadn’t kept them from working at it. She’d been right, it was better the next time… and the next… and…  Actually, she’d lost count after a bit—Harry seemed to have as much stamina in bed as he did on the Quidditch pitch. She, on the other hand, was feeling the consequences of using her body in ways that it had never been used before. But it was worth it. After the first time, he’d been careful to be sure she got as much pleasure as he did, and, sore or not, she’d do it as many times as it took to keep that look of pure joy and absolute contentment on his face. Thank Merlin for contraception and cleansing charms.

She smiled at the memory of the panic on his face when he’d first thought about the contraception part. By that time it would’ve been far too late if she hadn’t had the foresight to do one first thing that morning, as she had every Saturday morning since that first weekend he’d come. She almost laughed again as she thought about the range of expressions that crossed his face when he realized that she’d not only thought they might end up here, but prepared for it as well. Of course, then, after doing his own charm for good measure, he’d had to show his gratitude in the most delightful way.

She sighed again and ran her fingers through his hair, savoring the way his even breathing fanned across the top of her breasts as he slept. His head was on her shoulder, his arm rested heavily across her stomach, his legs twined through hers. Life couldn’t be any more perfect.

Except that her arm was going to sleep. As much as she hated to move, the prickles cascading to her hand were becoming too insistent to ignore. And now that she was thinking of it, other needs were making themselves known as well. She tried to slip out from under Harry without waking him, but the moment she moved, he tightened his grip around her waist, making the need to get up all the more urgent.

“Don’t leave me,” he muttered.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I need the loo.”

He moaned in protest, but let her go. She grabbed the dressing gown that appeared at the foot of the bed and ignored her protesting muscles to scamper across the cold stone floor. When she got back, he was sitting up searching for his glasses.

“What time is it?” he asked as he finally gave up groping the night table and summoned them.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” she said settling herself against the pillows next to him, already wired and ready to go again.

“We need a clock,” he said to the Room through a yawn, but was instantly awake when it appeared on the table next to him. “Bugger it, Ginny, it’s half eleven. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Let’s stay,” she said pushing him back down and rolling on top of him. She wasn’t nearly ready to come back to Earth. He groaned—she wasn’t sure if it was in pleasure or dread, but didn’t really care. “No one can find us. Let’s just stay here for the rest of the weekend.”

She planted her mouth on his to keep him from arguing, but he flipped them both over and pinned her hands to the pillows as he finished the kiss.

“I have to go. McGonagall will be waiting for me. You _do_ want me to come back, don’t you?”

Ginny struggled a moment to free her hands, then gave up and pouted at him. “I don’t want you to leave in the first place. How can you come back if you never leave?”

With another kiss, he jumped from the bed to gather his clothes and gave her a patient look as he put on his shirt. “I have to go so I can come back. If I don’t leave, McGonagall and your mum and dad and all of your brothers will cheerfully kill me. You’ll be a widow before we have a chance to get married.”

Ginny pulled her knees to her chest and watched him fumble under the bed for a stray sock. She took a minute to admire the bare bum stuck in the air by the edge of the bed.

“That reminds me,” she said. “Are we telling everyone yet?”

His face popped up beside her, eyes wide and uncertain. “Do you want to?”

She drew circles on the sheet with her finger. “Yes—and no.”

He looked confused. “Okaaaay…” he said, dragging the word out into a question.

She sighed. “I _do_ want to tell everyone. I want to shout it from the top of the Astronomy Tower. But I _don’t_ want it to be a big media event. And Mum really _will_ kill us if she reads about it in the newspaper before we tell her.”

Harry sat back on his heels. “Hadn’t thought about that.” He studied his sock for a moment before looking back at her. “It _will_ be a media event, you know. No matter how quiet we try to keep it, it’ll get out and be a big deal. Are you ready for that?”

She watched the light play about her ring for several moments before raising her eyes sadly to him. “I want to be. I wish I was. But I—I just—” She turned her head away from him and blinked to hold back the tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She felt the bed sink as his arms wrapped around her from behind. “Don’t be sorry. I know how you feel. It took me a long time to get used to it—and I’m still not, really.” He rested his chin on her shoulder while she rubbed the tears from her eyes. “Look, we don’t have to tell anyone just yet,” he said gently. “I won’t even tell Ron and Hermione.”

She gave him a watery smile. “How’re you going to manage that? Hermione will work it out just by looking at your face.”

“Yeah, well, I need to practice hiding my thoughts, don’t I? What kind of Auror can I be if everyone knows what I’m thinking all the time?”

She sniffled and Harry conjured a handkerchief for her. Twisting the ring off her finger, she held it out to him. “I guess you’d better put this back in the vault, then. If I wear it, the secret will be out.”

He frowned at it, but didn’t take it. “I have an idea. Lay it on the bed.”

She set the ring on the sheet in front of them. He pointed his wand at it and muttered a spell. Ginny gasped as it disappeared. He grabbed the place on the sheet where it had been and smiled as he took her hand. She could feel the weight of the gold and gemstones as the cool circle slipped over her knuckle, but her finger looked bare.

“There!” Harry looked pleased with himself. “Now you can wear it.”

Ginny wiggled her finger. If she looked closely, she could barely see tiny sparkles of light. “That’s amazing! How did you do that?”

“Disillusionment Charm. We learned it last week. Just makes it take on the appearance of whatever is behind it.”

Ginny stared at her finger. If she held her hand at just the right angle and squinted her eyes, she could see the outline of the ring. “That is bloody brilliant, Mr. Potter. I think I’m engaged to the smartest man in all of Britain.”

“Well, if you don’t get your arse in gear and get dressed, you’re going to be engaged to the deadest man in Britain. I have no doubt your mum can finish in a heartbeat what Voldemort couldn’t. Bill already threatened to hex me if I even _thought_ about what we’ve been doing.”

She grabbed the front of his unbuttoned shirt and pulled him to her for a kiss. “Sod Bill. I love you and I’m of age. I can make my own choices.”

He pushed her into the pillows and seconded her kiss. “I love you, too.”

When his lips moved from her mouth to her neck and his hand slipped under her robe, she giggled. “I thought we were getting dressed.”

He dropped his face to her shoulder and huffed out a heavy breath. “We were. We are.” He raised his head to look at the clock and gave a yelp before scrambling off the bed. “We’ve got five minutes. Get moving!”

Ginny gave a growling sigh of frustration, but she rolled off the bed and Summoned her clothes to save time.

They made it to the Gryffindor portrait hole with a minute to spare.

“Late night,” the Fat Lady said with a hint of a question in her voice.

“Yeah,” Harry replied with a cheeky smirk. “Close your eyes for a minute.” He didn’t wait to see if she did before giving Ginny a lingering kiss.

Ginny watched him sprinting toward the headmistress’s office until he rounded the corner, then she stared at the empty passageway a bit longer. When she finally turned to go in, the portrait opened before she could give the password.

“I do so love a good romance,” the Fat Lady said with a sigh.

Ginny smiled her thanks and made her way into the darkened common room. The shadowy disarray confirmed that the Gryffindor win had been properly celebrated. She’d have to remember to apologize to Neville for not being here to handle her Head Girl duties or help keep the celebration under control. She slapped her hand to her forehead with a groan. She’d forgotten about Slughorn’s party, too. Neville was probably ready to hex her.

Even in the dim light, she could tell that every surface in the room held empty Butterbeer bottles, candy wrappers, and other unidentifiable shapes that reminded her she should watch the floor as she walked so she didn’t trip over anything. The house-elves had their work cut out for them. Still far too keyed up for sleep, she toyed with the idea of tidying the room herself. But it was late and she wanted to be rested so she could keep up with Harry tomorrow.

A giddy thrill ran through her at the memory of how wonderful the day had turned out. She twirled around in a dance of sheer delight, hoping her euphoria would never end. With a wistful sigh, she turned to head upstairs, then stopped—that sound shouldn’t be there. She squinted into the faint, flickering light cast by the dying fire, but the room appeared to be empty. Deciding she was imagining things, she turned to go up—but there it was again.

This time she was sure—quiet sniffles were coming from in front of the fireplace. She tiptoed across the room but couldn’t see the huddled form on the floor until she stood right behind the sofa. He looked miserable—forehead on the arm wrapped around his knees, a photograph held listlessly by his side and dozens more strewn on the floor about him. Her heart broke for him.

“Dennis?” Ginny whispered “Is that you?”

His head popped up in surprise. He immediately looked toward the fire and swiped his eyes before starting to gather the pictures into a box that looked to hold at least a hundred more.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he croaked, his voice not seeming to work properly as he concentrated on his task.

Ginny watched his agitated movements and knew she shouldn’t push, but couldn’t drag herself away, either. “Who are the pictures of?” she finally asked.

He stopped and looked at the photo in his hand. It was a minute or two before he spoke again. “Everyone. They’re pictures of everyone. They were Colin’s.” His breath hitched and he slumped back against the chair, one hand over his eyes.

Ginny eased around the sofa and sat down on the floor. “Do you mind if I look?”

Without looking up, he gestured for her to go ahead. She picked up the nearest stack and had to smile—they were all of Harry from his second year on. In most of them, he was scowling and trying to walk out of the frame. How he had hated Colin’s effusive hero worship. They didn’t become friends—well, something closer to friends, anyway—until Dumbledore’s Army. Even then, Harry hadn’t liked that camera.

She flipped through the stack and soon came upon one that brought a small cry of delight—she was in her Quidditch robes and Harry was kissing her in the middle of the common room surrounded by all of their housemates. It was the first time they’d kissed. She should have realized that Colin would’ve got that shot. He _always_ had that bloody camera with him. She glanced at Dennis and set the picture aside. Maybe later she could ask for a copy.

She picked up another bunch that turned out to be D.A. training sessions. She didn’t remember Colin taking pictures, but here they were. Her heart jumped when she came upon one of Fred. George wasn’t in the picture, but she knew from the mischievous gleam in his eye that it could only be Fred. Everyone, even mum, had trouble telling them apart sometimes. Ginny never did. She ran her finger down the cheek of the smiling image. She’d almost forgotten how handsome he was. He was so different from George. Swallowing hard at the knot of tears that rose unexpectedly, she quickly added the picture to her request stack and grabbed several others to help fight the wave of emotion.

Professor Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled up at her from the next photo, then, in the next, Remus Lupin smiled at her, looking younger and more relaxed than he had in recent years. It must have been taken during his tenure as DADA professor.

The next photograph startled her.

“Dennis, when did Colin take this? He looks almost—well, not exactly happy, but at least not as peeved as usual.”

Dennis leaned over to inspect the face of Severus Snape. “Dunno. I think it was after Slytherin won a match once.”

“Well, that would account for it, I suppose.” She chanced a look at Dennis. “These are wonderful. Where did you get them?”

“Mum sent them. It’s funny that they came today when I’ve been missing him more than usual.”

“Why more than usual?”

He gave her a shy smile. “The match. He would’ve been over the moon about it all. Harry training me. Me catching the Snitch and sav—” He stopped abruptly and turned toward the fire.

She looked down at the floor. “You can go ahead and say it. You saved the game. I nearly gave it away, but you saved it.” She turned her eyes toward him. “You have a right to be proud. And I’m sorry I messed up your celebration. Harry should’ve been here to congratulate you too, but I took him away.”

“No worries,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, but he didn’t look at her. After a moment he continued, “Anyway, Colin would’ve been beyond excited about it all. And I—well, I just miss him today. A lot.”

“I miss him, too,” Ginny said quietly. She gave a sad little laugh. “And I didn’t realize how much I miss that annoying camera until I saw all of these. It seems a shame to keep them in a box.”

Dennis looked at her a moment before his eyes took on a thoughtful gleam. “You know, I wish I could display these somewhere, so everyone could see them.”

“That would be a great idea,” she said with a nod. “We should talk to Professor McGonagall—see if we could put them up in the hallway or something. It would be a really nice way to remember Colin.”

Dennis nodded and rubbed his eyes again. Ginny looked back at the stack of photos in her lap when his face crumpled and he turned toward the fire again. He seemed to be struggling to keep himself together and she had just begun to wonder if she should go upstairs when he struggled to speak again.

“It _would_ be nice to display his pictures. Kind of like the way they did on the telly for the Muggle princess who died last year.”

Ginny looked at him in surprise. “The Muggles had a princess? Do they have a king and queen, too?”

Dennis smiled, although it seemed strained. “Just a queen. Her husband is a prince. The princess was married to their son, who is also a prince. And they have two sons who are princes, too.”

“Ah,” Ginny said, more confused than ever, but not caring enough to pursue it further. “So how did she die? The princess?”

“In a car crash. Some reporters were chasing her—”

He stopped as Ginny gasped in horror. “Reporters were chasing her and made her crash her car? How awful!” Was it possible that the Muggle press was even worse than the Wizarding press? Or had she just not yet seen how bad the Wizarding press could get?

“Yeah. It was terrible. The princess was really popular. It was on the telly for days and days. Muggles came from all over the world to attend her funeral and they left flowers and pictures and stuff on the fence in front of the palace. Kind of a memorial, I guess.”

“A memorial…” Ginny echoed thoughtfully. Her eyes grew wide as an idea began to form in her mind.

He cocked his head as he saw her expression change. “What?”

Ginny looked at him properly and sat forward. “A memorial. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what we need.”

He frowned in confusion. “We do?”

She shifted to her knees as her thoughts gathered steam. “Haven’t you noticed how out of sorts everyone is? How sad? I’ve been trying to think of a way to help. We could do a memorial for—well, for everyone. For all of the people who died during the final battle.”

Dennis sat up a bit straighter as he began to catch her excitement. “Yeah. Like the big park* the Muggles opened last year. Pop told me all about it. They planted a bunch of trees and put up a lot of statues.”

“They did that for the princess?”

“No, it was for their war dead. A memorial park.”

“Just like we want to do.”

Dennis released a heavy sigh. “Yeah. But we can’t do a park. Or statues.”

Ginny looked down as she considered the problem—and found the answer in her lap. She looked back at Dennis with a grin and held up a photo.

Dennis broke into a slow smile as he nodded in understanding. “But we could do pictures.” 

She snatched up the stack of photos. “Look, here’s Dumbledore… and Snape… and Lupin.”

“Wait. I saw one of Cedric Diggory in here somewhere.” Dennis rifled through the box. “Here!”

Ginny stared at the warm, intelligent face in the photograph. This wasn’t the typical formal picture she’d seen of Cedric in his Triwizard Tournament tunic. In this shot, he was dressed casually, obviously talking with someone outside of the frame. He looked relaxed and happy, young and handsome, the kind of bloke she might have a crush on... if she weren’t in love with Harry.

“It’s so sad,” she said quietly. “He would’ve been—what? About twenty now?”

“Yeah,” Dennis said. “Such a waste.”

Ginny blinked at her tears, surprised at the flood of emotion over someone she really hadn’t even known. She looked at Dennis. “Is there a picture of Colin in there?”

Dennis nodded and pulled a photo from a stack next to him on the floor. “He—” he cleared his throat and took a couple of deep breaths. “He got Seamus to take this one of us at the end of third year—his and your fifth—just before Dumbledore died and everything went to hell.”

Ginny studied the picture of the two boys, arms around each other’s necks, giggling joyfully at some shared joke.

“We weren’t even supposed to be here last year, you know?” Dennis said, his voice thick and tight. “Muggleborns weren’t allowed. But Colin found someone to forge our papers, make it look like we had a wizard uncle, so we could get blood status. If we—if we—”

Ginny put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If you hadn’t, you might have been on the run like Dean. Or you might _both_ be—”

Dennis turned his head away from her, his voice turning hard. “Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t be better.”

“You don’t mean that,” she said quietly. “Colin wouldn’t want you to stop living. He—he’d want you to carry on so none of us could ever forget him.”

His shoulder jerked, as if he was holding in his sobs. Ginny’s heart went out to him. His pain was almost palpable, but she wasn’t sure what to do, how to help. He was trying so hard to hold himself together and she didn’t want to make matters worse. So she just sat quietly, squeezing his shoulder to show that she understood.

After a moment, he sniffed loudly and drew in a deep breath. “So. We’d best be getting these pictures ready for that memorial so we can do a proper job of keeping his memory alive, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

Ginny’s excitement grew as they went through the stacks of photos, finding all of the people they could who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts. When they’d finally sorted through everything, Ginny jumped to her feet with the stack in hand.

“We’re missing a lot, but this will be a good start. Come on, let’s go find a place to put them.”

Dennis stared, open-mouthed. “Ginny, it’s nearly two in the morning. If Filch catches us, we’ll be in detention until we die of old age!”

“If he catches us, I’ll handle it. There’s got to be some advantage to being Head Girl.” She turned toward the portrait hole. This was more like it. This was the adrenaline rush she’d been missing, pushing the rules for a good cause. Her body thrummed with the need to move.

“Are you coming?” she asked over her shoulder as she dived into the hallway.

He scrambled to follow her.

She reached the entry hall a few steps ahead of him, boldly flicking her wand to light the torches as she came to a stop before a large expanse of wall next to the door to the Great Hall.

“This is perfect,” she said with a nod. “It’s a big enough space and everyone will be able to see it every time they come into the hall.”

“Yeah,” Dennis whispered, glancing furtively around. “You sure Filch isn’t going to catch us? Or Peeves?”

“Well, come on. Let’s get to work so we can get out of here before they do.” She set to work like she’d taken one too many doses of Invigoration Draught.

They spent the next hour enlarging the pictures with Engorgio spells, levitating them into position, and fastening them to the wall with sticking charms. It took a bit of trial and error to get the spacing right and make sure everything was straight. They were making the final adjustments when a familiar voice interrupted their work.

“Miss Weasley. Mr. Creevey.”

Ginny whirled to find herself face to face with an extremely displeased headmistress in a tartan dressing gown. Filch danced excitedly behind her, no doubt anticipating the chance to finally use his shackles and chains. As Dennis came over to present a united front, Ginny squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

McGonagall’s stare was steely. “I didn’t believe it when Mr. Filch told me students were in the entrance hall with the torches lit. Please explain yourselves.”

“We’re putting up a memorial, Professor. Dennis’s mum sent him a box of photographs that Colin had taken and we saw all these wonderful pictures of the people who had died protecting Hogwarts and, well, we thought everyone might want to see them.”

Professor McGonagall eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then stepped past them to inspect the display. She walked slowly down the length of the wall, stopping in front of each picture to study it carefully before moving on to the next. When she reached the end, she turned slowly back to Ginny and Dennis, her eyes a bit brighter in the flickering firelight.

“You’re missing some. Most, in fact.”

“We know,” Ginny said. “We thought we might contact their families to see if they can send them. If we can’t get pictures, we can at least post a list of names.”

McGonagall turned back to the wall of photos. The silence in the hall was broken by a quiet sniffle.

“We—we thought we might get Dean Thomas to make a banner to put at the top,” Ginny said, struggling to speak. “It could say something like…‘We Remember the Fallen Heroes of Hogwarts’.”

Ginny heard an indrawn breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob, but after another moment, McGonagall turned around, her face dry and stern.

“You understand, Miss Weasley, that, as Head Girl, you have a responsibility to set an example for other students, not lead them into breaking the rules?”

Ginny looked at her toes as Dennis shuffled uncomfortably next to her. “Yes, Professor.”

“For such a flagrant violation, the usual punishment would be at least a month’s detention, if not outright expulsion.”

Ginny raised her head and gave the headmistress a steady look. “I understand, Professor. But please don’t punish Dennis. This was my idea to come do this tonight. I talked him into it.”

When Dennis started to protest, Ginny stepped on his foot.

McGonagall stood silently watching them, lips pressed together. She finally gave a crisp nod as if she’d come to a decision.

“I said that would be the _u_ sual punishment, Miss Weasley. I think in this case, the circumstances are rather _un_ usual and I will assign you and Mr. Creevey the task of completing this memorial as your detention. By the end of the day tomorrow—well, actually today—you must send the photograph requests to the families of all the missing heroes. I’ll provide you with a list first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, thank you, Professor!” Ginny smiled broadly, then wrinkled her nose and gave McGonagall a pleading look. “But could I ask one other favor?”

McGonagall raised one eyebrow. “Don’t push your luck, Ginny.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I don’t mean to, but you see, Dennis has a lot more of Colin’s pictures. Dozens and dozens more. He’s got pictures of everybody and, well, we thought it would be great if we could display them somewhere so everyone could see them. Kind of like a gallery show. But we weren’t sure where to do it.”

With a scowl that didn’t look quite as fierce as usual, McGonagall rolled her eyes. “I suppose we can probably find an empty classroom somewhere, Miss Weasley, but for now the two of you have about two minutes to get to your dormitories before I change my mind and have you scrubbing floors for Mr. Filch for the rest of the year.”

Ginny ignored Filch’s grumbling and grinned cheekily before bounding up the stairs with a relieved-looking Dennis in tow. She looked back down from the first floor landing and saw the headmistress dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as she walked slowly back toward the photo display.

***

Ginny got up feeling exhilarated and energized, even though she’d dozed for only minutes at a time during the few hours she’d been in bed. And her body ached in places she’d never realized existed before.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when she emerged from her shower. She hummed softly to herself as she put on a jumper and short denim skirt in the half-light of the dormitory room.

“Keep it down, will you?” Lavender said in a groggy whisper as she poked her face from her bed curtains. She disappeared behind the drape, but then quickly reappeared looking awake and astonished. “Ginny?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Even grumpy Lavender couldn’t dispel Ginny’s blissful mood today.

“What’s happened? You—you’re—happy.”

Ginny smiled at the dumbfounded look on Lavender’s face. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Yeah, I am. It’s great, isn’t it?”

She took one final look in the mirror at the glowing girl who hadn’t existed yesterday. Grabbing her book bag, she floated from the room, leaving Lavender staring after her open-mouthed. As she bounced down the stairs she twisted the invisible ring on her finger, her mind already ticking through the list of things she had to get done this morning so she could spend the afternoon and evening with Harry... alone. Her stomach flipped with anticipation and the buzz of desire coursed through her veins as she hurried her steps.

“Ginny—”

She was nearly to the portrait hole before she realized the common room wasn’t empty. Dean was standing in front of the fireplace, watching her anxiously, looking as though he hadn’t slept a wink. She took a few steps toward him, wondering how long he’d been waiting for her to come down.

“I—” he started, then ran his hands over his hair and looked at the floor. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday and I really hope you won’t quit the team.”

Quit the team. Ginny just barely managed to stifle a giggle. With everything else that had happened yesterday, she’d completely forgotten about the match. But it was obvious Dean hadn’t. In fact, he seemed extremely troubled by it. She schooled her face into a serious expression.

“It’s okay. You had every right to yell at me. I let the team down. I’m sorry.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling at the almost comical look of relief that washed over his features. “So you’re not going to quit.”

Looking regretful wasn’t hard. “I didn’t say that.”

His stricken face wasn’t funny at all. “No! You can’t. You—you’re our best player.”

Ginny shook her head sadly. “Not anymore. I realized yesterday that I just don’t care about Quidditch anymore. McGonagall’s been telling me I need to pare down my schedule. Quitting the team would help me do that. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s expression morphed into panic. “But—but—you love Quidditch. You’re the best on the team!”

Ginny snorted. “Yeah, I really proved that yesterday.”

“Yesterday was unusual. You hadn’t eaten properly. And the rain—”

“No, yesterday helped me realize what I need to do. I can’t play well if my heart’s not in it. I’ll hurt the team more than help if I don’t want to be there.”

Dean clenched his fists in frustration before opening his palms to her, his eyes pleading. “Please, Ginny. Please don’t do this. I need you.”

She had the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t talking about Quidditch anymore. Nervously toying with her ring, she watched him helplessly. What could she possibly say? Before she could respond, his face took on a look of urgency and he folded his hands together as if in prayer.

“Don’t decide now. Take a break. Our next match isn’t until after the Christmas holiday. Just wait a couple of weeks before you make a decision.”

“But you need that time to train someone else—”

“No, it won’t make that much difference. I was going to cut back on practice before the hols anyway. Please, Ginny. Please, just say you’ll think about it.”

She stared at the fire as she considered his words. She really didn’t want to play Quidditch anymore. But she didn’t want to hurt Dean either. Maybe delaying the decision was a good idea. It would give her time to help him understand and maybe get their friendship on firmer footing again.

“All right. I’ll think about it. But don’t get your hopes up,” she added quickly at the grin that broke out on his face.

“No worries. Just don’t make any snap decisions.”

Ginny’s heart felt lighter again with the worry gone from his face, and her thoughts turned back to her list of things to do.

“Would you come down and help me with a project this morning?” she asked.

“What’s up?”

“You’ll see. Come on.” She had a momentary twinge of guilt as they headed toward the portrait hole, knowing that he’d do anything she asked right now. She hoped he’d see the value of the project and want to be involved beyond wanting to sway her decision about Quidditch.

When they reached the last flight of stairs into the entrance hall, Ginny stared in amazement at the scene before her. The memorial had been up less than four hours and it was early on a weekend morning—far too early for many students to have begun stirring. But the floor in front of the display was already covered with bouquets of flowers and candles and tiny animated stuffed animals, just like Dennis had said the memorial for the Muggle princess had been. Smaller photos and notes had been haphazardly stuck to the wall beneath the pictures they’d so carefully aligned in the wee hours of the morning. A few students were standing before the wall, looking reverently at the faces before them.

“Whoa!” Dean whispered. “Where did that come from?”

“Dennis Creevey and I did it last night. It’s the project I want you to help with.”

Ginny stopped and let Dean move forward alone to inspect the display. She watched as he and the others slowly made their way from one row of photos to the next, carefully examining each face. When he got to the end, she stepped quietly up beside him.

“We need a banner. Something over the pictures to tell what it is.”

“A title,” he said absently, still studying the display, his eyes lighting with interest.

“Yes. Something like ‘We remember the fallen heroes of Hogwarts.’ And names—we need the name under each picture and a list of the ones we can’t get pictures for. You’re the best artist I know. Would you do it?”

“Could I help?”

At the question, Ginny turned to find Lisa Turpin’s bright blue eyes looking at her uncertainly.

“I’ve a fair hand at lettering,” Lisa continued, her voice tight and soft.

Ginny smiled warmly. “Yes. That would be wonderful!” She turned to Dean and nearly laughed aloud at the gobsmacked look on his face. Ginny had seen that look often enough on her brothers’s faces to recognize it and realized that any boy would find Lisa’s combination of blonde curls, blue eyes and china-doll face—not to mention her feminine curves—irresistible.

“Dean?” she asked, barely keeping the giggle from her voice.

“Uh—yeah,” he said dragging his eyes to Ginny’s.

“Dean, this is Lisa Turpin. Maybe she could help you with the banner?”

He nodded dazedly, his lips moving for a moment before he could manage to make sound coordinate with them. “Uh—yeah—all right.”

Ginny turned to Lisa, who was gazing at the wall. “Lisa, this is Dean Thomas, Gryffindor’s resident artist. Perhaps the two of you can come up with something nice to put above the pictures?”

Lisa turned to Dean and gave him a wispy smile. “Hi, Dean. Pleased to meet you.”

Dean cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Um—hi. Meet to please—er—pleased to meet you, too.” Then suddenly his eyes lit with recognition. “Lisa Turpin. You’re Fiona Flannery’s daughter!”

Ginny hid her smile behind her hand. She recognized that star-struck look from her own early crush on Harry.

Lisa nodded and smiled briefly at Dean before turning back to Ginny. “Could I add a picture of my mother to this?”

Ginny ran her eyes over the wall. “I think you should, actually. Looks like this is becoming a memorial to _everyone_ who died in the war.”

Lisa gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.” She turned and ran toward the stairs.

Ginny smiled as she watched Dean watch Lisa until she disappeared from view.

“So, what do you think?” she asked.

“Beautiful,” he said breathlessly, his eyes still on the stairs.

“I meant the memorial, you prat,” Ginny said with a laugh as she swatted his arm.

He jerked out of his reverie and scanned the wall. “Uh—yeah—um—great idea. No worries about the banner. I’ll—we’ll work on it today.”

***

Harry was surprised when the blonde girl on the stairs skittered out of his way, looking at him like he had Spattergroit. No one had avoided him like that since second year when everyone had thought he was the heir of Slytherin. He shrugged off his confusion and doubled his pace down the stairs in search of Ginny. It was strange that she hadn’t been waiting outside of McGonagall’s office and the Fat Lady told him she’d already gone downstairs—with Dean. Yesterday had been so perfect. He wondered what could possibly have gone wrong after he left last night.

When he reached the first floor landing he spotted them immediately, but the irritation that flashed through him was short-lived as he followed her animated gestures and noticed the wall. Stopping in his tracks halfway down the stairs, he stared in amazement, oblivious to the comings and goings around him until Dean passed by and muttered a curt greeting. Harry nodded belatedly in response, then turned back to find Ginny.

She was watching him, anxiously twisting her hands together and shifting nervously from one foot to the other, apparently trying to gauge his reaction. He swallowed hard at the knot that formed in his throat and descended the rest of the way to the entrance hall. She met him as he stepped off the stairs, her face flushed, unspoken questions in her eyes. 

“When did you do this?” Somehow, he knew without having to ask that Ginny was responsible.

“Last night.” She pointed at Dennis, who was coming down the stairs behind Harry. “When I got back to the common room, Dennis was going through a box of Colin’s pictures that his mum sent.” She quickly explained how they came up with the idea and put the photos in place. When she finished, she searched his face with worried eyes. “Do you like it?”

Harry was surprised at the quiver in her voice and the uncertainty in Dennis’s expression—as if they needed his approval. His heart swelled with emotion and his face split with a grin. “It’s brilliant! I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner.”

She laughed in relief. “I wasn’t sure. It just seemed like such a good idea when we thought of it.”

Harry slapped Dennis on the back then swung Ginny around in a hug. “It’s perfect.”

She pulled back to look at him, a wry smile on her face. “Well, it comes with a price. We got caught. McGonagall’s given us detention.”

“What, you’ll be polishing trophies for a month with Filch? Or cleaning cauldrons for Slughorn? Or bedpans for Pomfrey?”

“No, actually it’s not that bad,” Ginny said. “Dennis and I have to try to get pictures of the rest of the people killed in the final battle. We’ve got to write letters to about forty families—today.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard,” Harry said with a nonchalant shrug. “Just write one letter and use a duplication charm.”

“This is detention, Mr. Potter. Use of magic will not be permitted.”

They all jerked around at the sound of McGonagall’s voice. She was holding a sheet of parchment out to Ginny.

“Here is your list, Miss Weasley. I expect you and Mr. Creevey to have the letters finished before the end of the day.”

“Yes, Professor,” Ginny said meekly.

“Professor,” Harry said as McGonagall started to turn away. “May I help them?”

“No, Potter. This is detention. Miss Weasley is fortunate that you were even allowed to come today.”

Harry bit back his argument. Ginny might be able to get through detention faster with his help, but he didn’t want to push his luck. If he didn’t make trouble, maybe they could have a little time alone together before he had to leave.

“But, Professor,” Dennis said. “Wouldn’t the letters carry more weight if they came from Harry? Wouldn’t these families appreciate getting a letter from _Harry Potter_?”

Harry stifled a groan. He really hated playing the fame card, but in this case, Dennis might actually have a point. He probably should write to these families anyway, detention or not.

McGonagall was eyeing them all pensively. Harry held his breath. Ginny and Dennis seemed to be doing the same.

“I suppose you may be right, Mr. Creevey. All right, Potter, you may help. But, no magic. Every letter must be written by hand and owled before six o’clock this evening.”

Harry didn’t miss the glimmer of amusement in the headmistress’s eye when they all grinned cheekily and thanked her. They spent breakfast discussing what to say in the letter and who should sign it, finally settling on a simply worded expression of thanks and explanation about the memorial followed by a request for a photograph. As Head Girl, Ginny’s signature would be first, followed by Harry’s then Dennis’s as “Memorial Committee” members. The list contained forty-three names including family members and friends of Hogwarts students, shopkeepers and homeowners from Hogsmeade, and Aurors.

As soon as their breakfast was cleared away, Ginny divided the list between them and they set up shop at the end of the Gryffindor table. Dean and Lisa spread their things out at the end of the Ravenclaw table. Harry could see late breakfast arrivals stopping outside the door to look at the photo display, and many of them stopped to look at Dean and Lisa’s handiwork or to speak to Ginny. The memorial looked to be a big hit.

With all of the interruptions, Harry managed to get through four letters before Ginny’s presence overwhelmed his concentration. She was a ball of energy, in constant motion, touching him every time she jumped from her seat to talk with people or tend to various duties. And when she was close, her scent filled his senses, igniting his body with memories of the day before. He rolled his eyes when he realized he had skipped a line in the letter he was copying. Irritated that he couldn’t use his wand to correct the error, he balled up the parchment and started again…and promptly misspelled two words. By the seventh error, he was growling in frustration.

“Something wrong?” Ginny ran a hand over his back as she sat down next to him.

“No,” he said, eyeing the blob of ink he’d just smeared across the page. “Just can’t seem to concentrate.” He caught her smirk out of the corner of his eye. “You think it’s funny, don’t you?”

She gave him a carefully blank look. “Why would I think it’s funny?”

He snorted and turned back to his parchment. He could tell she was smiling. Maybe she was having trouble concentrating, too.

Dean called for Ginny to come look at something and Harry watched her cross the room. She seemed so much different than she had yesterday—more like the Ginny she’d been the spring of his sixth year, with a confidence and energy he hadn’t seen since the final battle. He suddenly realized how much Fred’s death and her ordeal with Greyback had taken out of her. The change had been so gradual and they’d been apart for so long that the old Ginny had got lost somewhere along the way. Looking at her now, he wondered at how happy she looked. The memorial, a project to help people, was probably responsible for the biggest part of the change, but he also liked to think that part of it might be because of him. He hoped so, anyway.

“Hi, Harry. Whacha doin’?”

Harry snapped from his musings to find Romilda Vane sitting sideways on the bench next to him. Elbow on the table, fingers toying with her thick, dark hair, she leaned forward, calling attention to her generous cleavage less than an inch from his shoulder. The sight made him think of the day he’d spent with Ginny and his body responded in a most untimely manner. He shifted closer to the table and kept his eyes carefully on Romilda’s face.

“Helping Ginny,” he replied pointedly.

“Isn’t she doing detention? You shouldn’t be helping. _You_ didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She didn’t either,” Harry said, turning back to his parchment. “This is a good cause.”

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing?” Ginny had walked up behind Harry with her hands on her hips. He had to work hard to keep from grinning at her fierce expression.

Romilda pursed her lips. “I’m just talking. What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, go talk to someone else’s boyfriend and stay away from mine,” Ginny said. When Romilda didn’t move, she added. “I’ve told you before about harassing guests. Do I need to talk to McGonagall?”

With a glare at Ginny, Romilda brushed her assets against Harry’s shoulder as she got off the bench and smiled sweetly at him. “Come and find me when you get bored.”

Romilda sashayed across the room and flipped her hair as she went through the door.

Ginny glowered after her. “Slag,” she muttered as she flopped down next to Harry, sitting much closer than she had been before.

Harry grinned until Ginny’s hand moved up his leg and stopped when she reached the evidence of his previous thoughts. She gaped at him.

“You weren’t—”

“I was thinking of you,” he said with a scowl. “I was!” he added in protest when she slid away from him and picked up her quill.

“Ginny—” Harry moved down the bench and wrapped his arm around her waist. “I really was thinking of you.” He leaned over to kiss her neck but was stopped by the sound of a throat being cleared—McGonagall was looming over them.

“Mr. Potter. I said you may help. That does not look helpful.”

Face flaming, Harry slid back to his spot. “Sorry, Professor.”

She nodded her approval and looked at Ginny. “Miss Weasley, please come with me. Your assistance is required in front of the memorial.”

When they were gone, Dennis grumbled from across the table, “We’re never going to get finished.”

Harry sighed and turned back to his parchment. He got through two more letters before Ginny returned.

“People are leaving so much stuff out there it was starting to block the doorway.” She settled back in her place on Harry’s left. “We had to set up a boundary to keep everything confined to a certain area. Isn’t it great, though, the way everyone’s taken to it?”

Harry and Dennis murmured their agreement and the three of them concentrated silently for a while on their task, although Harry found Ginny’s constant fidgeting terribly distracting. Just as he found his thoughts straying again, wondering if she was angry with him about Romilda, Ginny edged a bit closer and hooked her ankle around his. He inched his leg toward her and frowned hard at his paper when she rubbed her foot against his. She apparently wasn’t angry. Instead, she was making it harder to concentrate. After a few moments, he dropped his left hand to the bench between them and ran his thumb along the rough fabric of her skirt. She reached over with her left hand and pulled his into her lap, stroking his knuckles with her thumb. His quill froze when she placed his hand on her leg while she used her left hand to reach for another piece of parchment.

Fire shot through him. He could feel the warm skin above her knee where her skirt had hitched up. With a furtive glance at the door to be sure McGonagall wasn’t watching, he edged his fingers under the hem of her skirt to the inside of her thigh, working hard to keep his face impassive. He struggled to keep his quill moving, even though he knew he’d have to toss the parchment and start over; she seemed to be writing easily. Did she really move her leg towards him a bit? Wondering what it would take to make her react, he inched his hand further under her skirt.

“Harry, m’boy! How are you?”

Harry jerked his hand back into his lap, hoping his red face wouldn’t give away exactly what he had been thinking... and doing.

“Professor Slughorn. How—how are you?”

“Just fine. Just fine. Although I would’ve been much better last evening if you and the lovely Miss Weasley had made it to my dinner party.”

Harry frowned. “Dinner party?”

“Oh, Professor, I’m sorry,” Ginny said with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “After that horrible Quidditch match yesterday, I completely forgot to tell Harry about it.”

“Ah, yes. It wasn’t one of your better performances, m’dear.”

Ginny grimaced.

“But no matter,” Slughorn continued cheerily, waving his beefy hand to dismiss the subject. “I’ll just let you know now that my Christmas party is set for the last Saturday before the holidays and I expect you both to be there. It just won’t be a party without you.”

“Oh, erm, well…” Harry cut his eyes at Ginny, hoping she could come up with a suitable excuse. She looked just as blank as he felt. They were trapped. “Yes, we’ll, um, we’ll plan on it.”

“Excellent! Excellent! And come by for a visit soon. I want to hear all about your year on the run and how you defeated You-Know-Who.”

Harry clenched his jaw to keep from making a comment he might regret, but Slughorn seemed to take his agreement for granted and ambled off toward the teachers’s table for lunch.

“Sorry,” Ginny said. “I forgot we were supposed to go to his party last night.” She gave him a wicked grin. “I think I got distracted.”

Harry's body heated at the memory of how she’d got distracted. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Can we take a break?”

She looked at him, her eyes glowing with mischief. “We’ll never get finished if we don’t keep at it.”

“Please, just a few minutes,” he pleaded.

“I’m sure McGonagall’s watching, or else she’s got Filch watching. We’d best keep going. Besides,” she dropped her voice and breathed into his ear, “if we get finished, we won’t have to come back.”

“You’re killing me,” he groaned.

“Harry,” she said pointedly. “You’ve survived much worse than writing a few letters. Stop whinging.”

“You’re an evil woman, Ginny Weasley,” Harry said, putting both hands back on top of the table as Dennis stared at them in confusion.

She just smiled and turned back to her parchment.

~~~~~~~~~~

* Created in 1997, the National Memorial Arboretum is a living tribute that will forever acknowledge the personal sacrifices made by the armed and civil services of [Great Britain]. The Arboretum is sited in the centre of England on Croxall Road, Alrewas in Staffordshire, so it is easy to reach from any part of the country. http://www.nationalmemorialarboretum.org/


	11. Promises, promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes promises that he may not be able to keep.

The flickering firelight cast a golden glow over the room and flitted playfully through the fiery silken strands tickling his nose. Harry relit the guttered-out candle and pushed up to prop his head on his hand as he summoned his glasses. He wanted to see every detail, to be sure he really wasn’t dreaming.

With the constant interruptions and Harry’s inability to focus, it was after four o’clock before he and Ginny had tumbled into the Room of Requirement, tearing at clothing and trying to consume each other as they fell onto the bed. The fire that had been smoldering all day had erupted and burned back to embers within minutes. When it quickly flared again, they took their time, basking in its warmth until it reached fever pitch and left them sweaty and sated in each other’s arms. Harry had spooned up behind her and nuzzled her neck, talking with her until they’d drifted off to sleep, happier and more contented than he could ever remember being in his life.

He was awake now, enjoying his second favorite pastime: watching Ginny sleep (only recently replaced by his new first favorite which required her to be awake). But this was so much better than watching her sleep on the sofa in the common room or in the Burrow sitting room where anyone could walk in. Here, to his heart’s content, he could study every facet of her—the brush of lashes against her cheek, the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the twinkle of the silver lightning bolt pendant at her throat, the dusting of rose-colored freckles across her nose and cheeks and other places that he’d never dreamed would have freckles.

He let his eyes wander over those other places, at least as far as the twisted sheets would allow. The small birthmark on her hip (in a place that no one else would ever see) was just visible under the edge of the silky fabric. He carefully shifted things a bit so he could study the deep pink mark. They’d discussed the shape of it at length. Ginny had said that she’d always thought of it as a strawberry, but he had set her straight—it looked just like lips puckered for a kiss. He’d told her it was an easy mistake for her to make, since she was looking at it upside down and couldn’t get as close as he could. She’d told him he needed to use his glasses and take another look. So he had. And then he’d demonstrated the proper response to a birthmark shaped like a kiss. After a fair bit of persuasion, she’d finally agreed with him.

She stirred and smiled a bit in her sleep, nestling closer to him.

That was another of his favorite things—touching her. He couldn’t get enough of being this close to her, skin to skin in the most intimate way possible. The flowery scent he’d associated with her since sixth year was like a drug to him (he really needed to ask her what it was), but firewhiskey had nothing on being able to nearly absorb her into his pores. She was his addiction.

And she’d agreed to marry him.

The thought made his heart leap and his breath catch. Joy and love and a multitude of other emotions he couldn’t even name exploded in his chest as he ran his hand down the length of her arm until he reached the invisible ring on her finger. He no longer needed the Mirror of Erised—his heart’s desire was here, pressed down the length of him, warming his heart and body and soul.

Did she have any idea of the power she held in her hands? Did she know what she could do to him with just a word or a look or a touch… or without moving a muscle? He'd do whatever she wanted, give her anything she asked, be whatever she needed.

Vulnerable didn’t begin to describe how he felt. When he’d gone into the forest to offer his body to Voldemort, he’d felt exposed and defenseless. Now, as he laid his very soul bare for Ginny, he knew he was completely at her mercy in a way Voldemort could never have imagined. Nothing had ever felt so right. In his heart, he was already bound to her for eternity, and nothing she could do would ever change that. Living without her was no longer an option. His ability to function, to breathe, rested on being able to be with her, to love her, just like this, forever.

He brought her fingers to his lips, then woke her with a kiss that left her breathless and led to his first favorite pastime.

Afterward, as they lay entwined, watching the fire dance, he glanced at the clock and groaned. “It’s almost time.”

She tightened her hold on him. “Don’t go. Let’s just stay here forever.”

He smiled. “That would be brilliant, wouldn’t it? I wish we could.”

“Why can’t we?”

“Because you have to finish school and I have to go learn how to save the world.”

“You’ve already saved the world and I don’t need to finish school. I’m going to marry you and work with George. I don’t need NEWTs for that.”

“Okay, _you_ explain it to your mum. I’ll hide.”

“Chicken.”

“Exactly. I’ll take a Dark wizard any day over Molly Weasley.”

“That reminds me,” she said as she propped on her elbow to look at him. “I’ve meant to ask you about the wizards in the alley you mentioned in your letter a couple of weeks ago. They’re not sending you out on assignment yet, are they? You’re still in training, right?”

Harry tensed. The worry on her face made him regret the impulse to include that bit of information in his letter. He wondered how much he should tell her. “No, I wasn’t on an assignment. It was just a couple of thugs I came across in an alley. Two Aurors were in the neighborhood and caught one of them, but the other one got away.”

“You were attacked?” Her eyes widened with panic. “But who—”

“It’s okay, Ginny. Nothing happened. They weren’t after _me_ ,” he lied, crossing his fingers under the pillow and looking at the fire. “It was just a random run-of-the-mill robbery. The Muggles would call it a mugging—huh! I never thought about how appropriate that word is.”

She didn’t laugh at his lame joke, and when he looked back, her eyes were uncertain. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said soothingly. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

Harry pulled her back down and cuddled her on his chest, stroking the length of her back to calm her fears. He waited until she relaxed against him to speak again. “Ginny, you know being an Auror is dangerous. But that’s why I’m in training. So it won’t be _as_ dangerous. You’ll make yourself sick if you worry about me all the time.”

She lay quietly for a few moments before responding without looking at him, her voice just above a whisper. “I know. But I’ve got some time, right? To get used to it, I mean. You’ve still got two more years of training. Right?” She had tensed up again.

Harry hesitated, thinking of his meeting with Malfoy and where it could lead. “Yeah. But what about after that? Will you be okay with it? With me being an Auror?”

She nodded against his chest, though he could still sense her doubt and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Suddenly she pushed up on her elbow again to look at him. “I want to know. I want you to tell me when you’re working on something dangerous, so I won’t be surprised if something happens. Last year was hell, when you were gone and I didn’t know where you were or what was happening. I want to know if something’s coming so I can be ready.”

“Ginny, I—”

“I know you can’t tell me everything, but you can tell me when something might be coming, can’t you?” The note of panic was creeping back into her voice. “You won’t let me be surprised, will you?”

Alarm bells were going off in his head. Every instinct he had was warning him against this. But he couldn’t tell her no.

“I—I’ll try. But you don’t have to worry. Last year I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I’ve learned loads of ways to protect myself. I’ll be okay. And, besides, I might not know something’s coming until it does.”

“I don’t care. I want to know whatever you can tell me. Promise me, Harry. Promise you will.”

Did this mean he should tell her about Malfoy? What was there to tell? Nothing had happened. She wanted to know if he was going to be in danger. He certainly wasn’t in any danger yet. Perhaps he should wait until he had something concrete to tell.

This was such a bad idea in so many ways. He knew it, but he could do nothing about it. She was watching him closely, waiting. He could almost see the arguments forming in her mind. He swallowed hard and the words leapt from his mouth before he could stop them.

“I promise.”

***

Still fretting over Ginny’s fears and the promise he worried he wouldn’t be able to keep, Harry stumbled from the fireplace at Grimmauld Place and immediately Apparated back to Hogsmeade. He had to take the roundabout way for his meeting with Malfoy so McGonagall wouldn’t know where he was going.

The crowd at the Three Broomsticks was just getting wound up by the time he slipped through the front door under his Invisibility Cloak. Malfoy nursed a glass of firewhiskey at a table in the back corner, watching the door with barely contained irritation. He did a decent job of keeping his reaction to a minimum when Harry spoke quietly into his ear.

“You need some air, Malfoy. Go for a walk.”

When they got outside, Malfoy growled through clenched teeth, “You’re late.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. Turn left and keep walking.”

Slivers of weak moonlight flitted between shadowy tufts of clouds and the night grew quiet as they got past the edge of the village.

After a few moments Malfoy came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road and crossed his arms. “I’m not going to the Shrieking Shack, Potter. That’s where—” He broke off and pressed his lips together.

“Snape died,” Harry finished for him. “Scared?”

Malfoy lifted his chin. “No. I just don’t see the point—we can talk here.”

“Right. You look quite natural standing in the middle of a dark road talking to yourself. Anybody watching wouldn’t be suspicious at all.”

“Who’s watching?”

“You tell me.”

Malfoy peered into the darkness. “I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Yeah. Sure you did. Just walk. We need to get into some cover to be sure no one sees us.”

“I hate talking to you when you’re under that thing.” Malfoy threw up his hands and huffed out an icy mist of breath before stalking off in the direction they’d been going.

As they crested the hill, the clouds parted and the strangely bright quarter moon cast an eerie glow over the scene. Menacing shadows clawed their way from the forest toward the ramshackle building that looked more ominous than usual in the silvery light.

Harry nearly plowed into the back of Draco when he stopped again. “Potter—”

“Just shut up.” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s arm and Disapparated.

“Bloody hell, Potter!” Malfoy roared when they reappeared at the scene of their first meeting. “You should’ve warned me. I could’ve been splinched!”

Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “You mean you weren’t? Damn!”

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Malfoy said dryly.

“Lumos,” Harry said. “Enough with the pleasantries. What’s going on with Dolohov?”

Malfoy glared and took time to tidy his hair before speaking. “They’ll be finished brewing the potion by next weekend. They still don’t have a bit of the Minister, but I think it’s supposed to come this week. You’ll need to be on the lookout for O’Malley to make his move.”

“Her move. She’s a girl.”

“A girl?” Malfoy looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Yeah. That makes sense, now. They said something at the last meeting about chatting up the Minister. I couldn’t see how a bloke was going to do that.”

“Yeah, apparently that’s how she got all of us.”

A slow grin split Malfoy’s face. “Chatted you up, did she, Potter? So you’re not a poof, after all.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Harry with only minor irritation. “A lot of women chat me up.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Malfoy said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “That Savior of the Wizarding World thing is a real witch magnet. I bet you haven’t had to toss off once since the war ended.”

“I said shut it, Malfoy.” Harry scowled. This topic was starting to get to him.

“Oh, come on, Potter. You could have any—make that _every_ woman in Britain. Don’t tell me you’re being noble and staying faithful to the Weaslette while she’s locked away at Hogwarts. I bet she hasn’t even let you get your leg over yet.”

Harry saw red. He jammed his wand tip into Malfoy’s chest. “One more word, Malfoy, and you won’t have a leg to get over.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Malfoy chortled. “You _have_ been poking her! Did you have to get permission from the whole Weasel pack first?”

Before he could stop himself, Harry non-verbally sent Malfoy flying through the air to crash against a tree deep in the shadows. He wasn’t about to let anyone—especially Malfoy—insult Ginny by making what they had sound dirty. Harry stood where he was, breathing raggedly as he waited for Malfoy drag himself off the ground and limp back into the small circle of wandlight.

Straightening his cloak with a condescending air, he glared at Harry. “Don’t do that again, Potter, or it’s the last you’ll see of me.”

“Right. Then I guess I’ll be going.”

As Harry began to step and turn, Malfoy held up a hand, a note of panic in his voice. “Wait!”

Harry paused, watching him expectantly.

Malfoy closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before looking at Harry steadily. “All right. I was out of line. I apologize.”

“Do you have any more information for me, Malfoy?” Harry ground out.

“There’s a meeting. Saturday at midnight.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They gave me a Portkey.”

Harry thought for a moment. There was no question about whether he would go, but this was exactly the kind of thing that could get him in trouble with Ginny. The thought made his stomach clench. He pushed his trepidation away as he eyed Malfoy. “Meet me behind Weasleys’s. Be there at five till.”

Malfoy shook his head with an incredulous look. “ _You’re_ not going. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat. Or, worse, torture you into oblivion while they use you as bait for the Ministry. That won’t do either one of us any good.”

“They won’t know I’m there.”

“What if they’ve got alarms set like they did in Hogsmeade last year? You might have started believing your own press, but I haven’t. No way you can take on a room full of Death Eaters by yourself.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Malfoy was worse than Ginny. “Who said I was going to be by myself?”

Malfoy’s eyes grew even wider and he held up his hands. “Oh, no, you don’t. You can’t bring in an army on my Portkey. You might as well go ahead and hit me with the killing curse now.”

“Always worried about your own skin, aren’t you?”

Malfoy gave him a scathing look. “I’m worried about my mother. Besides, I’m more valuable to you alive and undetected.”

Harry studied him carefully. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re protected. You just let me worry about the details.”

Malfoy snorted in disbelief as Harry took them back to Hogsmeade.

***

“I’m telling you, you’ve got to bring her in today!”

Harry was beside himself with frustration. Robards was determined not to believe him.

“And I’m telling you, we don’t have enough evidence. Give me your source and I’ll see what I can do.”

They glared in silent standoff until Harry finally threw up his hands.

“Fine! I’m going to the Minister with this.” He slammed open the door and strode down the hall as Robards bellowed after him.

“Potter, get your arse back in here before I—”

The sound was lost as the lift descended. Harry had no doubt that going over Robards’s head could mean the end of his Auror career—Ginny might get her wish after all. But he had to do what he could to prevent this disaster. If talking to the Minister was what it took, he was more than willing to take the risk.

As he stepped from the lift on Level One, Harry saw her—O’Malley was waiting with her arms full of parchment in the shadow of a doorway about halfway down the hall. Dodging behind a statue of some ancient wizarding hero, he pulled his Invisibility Cloak over him. Almost before he was ready, the door to the Minister’s office opened and Shacklebolt stepped into the corridor, talking with a short, grey-haired wizard as they made their way toward the lifts. Just as they drew even with her, O’Malley stepped into their path causing a colossal collision that sent parchment flying and the three of them sprawling in a tangle to the floor.

From a safe distance, Harry kept a close eye on O’Malley as they sorted out the confusion. The Minister graciously helped her to her feet and she apologized profusely. If he hadn’t been looking for it, Harry might have missed the way she kept dropping the pages she’d picked up so she could brush close to Shacklebolt’s head several times as the three of them bent down to gather the scattered papers. She plucked something from her sleeve and kept her finger and thumb pressed tightly together as she collected the parchments from everyone and bowed away from them with a final apology. Harry slipped past the Minister and his visitor to follow O’Malley, who had stopped around the next corner and was putting a stopper into a phial. Harry reached from under his cloak to grab her wrist.

“I’ll take that,” he said, pulling the cloak from his head.

She snarled at him and tried to jerk her arm free, but he tightened his grip and dragged her, complaining loudly, back around the corner toward the Minister’s office. Shacklebolt stopped in his doorway to find the cause of the commotion as Robards barreled up the other end of the corridor.

“Potter, what do you think you’re doing?” the Head Auror yelled.

“I told you!” Harry said tersely to Robards, shaking the phial at him. “I told you she needed to be stopped. If I hadn’t come down when I did—”

“What’s going on here?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry held out the phial to him, keeping his grip on O’Malley. “Our friend here is collecting for Polyjuice Potion. That little scene a few minutes ago was a set-up to get this.”

Shacklebolt held the phial to the light and inspected the contents.

“Eyebrow hair,” Harry explained.

The Minister grimaced. “Let’s take this inside.”

He gestured for the group to enter, and then followed them through the reception to his office. Once inside, he held up a hand to keep Robards quiet and looked at Harry. “Explain.”

Harry held tight to the struggling witch as he spoke. “She’s collecting for Polyjuice Potion. She’s already got me and Robards and several other Aurors and Ministry officials. You’re the last on the list.”

“What do you mean she’s got me?” Robards sputtered.

“Did she chat you up in the lift a couple of weeks ago?” Harry asked and smiled grimly as Robards flushed purple. “Yeah. Thought so. That’s how she got me, too.”

With a death grip still on O’Malley’s wand hand, he quickly explained the rest of the plot to make it look like the Ministry was trying to take over Gringott’s, which would certainly lead to a destabilized economy and probable goblin rebellion.

“You’ve got no proof of that,” O’Malley protested, sending a poisoned look Harry’s way. “Just the word of a bleedin’ trainee.”

“I assure you we will get to the bottom of this, Miss O’Malley,” Shacklebolt said, his tone calm but intimidating. “However, if you _are_ involved, you might find it to your advantage to provide some assistance in the investigation.”

“I’ve got nothin’ to say and you can’t hold me. You’ve got no proof.”

“I heard you,” Harry said. “Friday night, you were talking to that man at Le Manoir and I heard what you said about collecting for the potion.”

Harry ignored Robards’s volcanic face as O’Malley fumed. “I never saw you—” She stopped abruptly, furious as she realized that she’d given herself away.

“I think that gives us justification for further discussion,” Shacklebolt said. “Robards will you have Miss O’Malley escorted to a holding cell, please?”

Once she had been led down the hall, shouting colorful descriptions of how she would like to torture the three of them, Robards turned on Harry.

“Potter, I gave you a direct order not to go looking for that woman.”

Harry put a stranglehold on his temper and spoke carefully through gritted teeth. “I _didn’t_ go looking for her. I took Fleur and Bill Weasley to dinner and she was there, so I just listened.”

Robards snorted in disbelief. “Of course you did, Potter. More likely you planned dinner after finding out O’Malley’s plans. Why else would you pick the most expensive restaurant in Britain an hour away from London? And you probably used that cloak of yours, too.”

Harry closed his eyes and willed his anger into submission. “Fleur picked the restaurant. O’Malley being there was a coincidence. The _point_ is—”

“The _point_ is,” Robards yelled, sticking his finger in Harry’s face, “you disobeyed another direct order—”

“Enough!” Shacklebolt finally pushed off from the desk where he’d been leaning to watch the exchange. “We have more important things to worry about right now. Harry, how did you come to know about this plot?”

Robards seethed silently. Harry knew the argument wasn’t over, but he was relieved to be getting back to the main topic. “Someone came to me about a week ago.”

“Someone?”

“Someone who was—well, looking for someone they could trust in the Ministry—someone to pass information to.”

“An informant,” Shacklebolt said. “I don’t suppose you can tell us who?”

“No.”

“You’ve verified his or her veracity?”

“Yes, sir. He gave me O’Malley’s name. I trust him—so far, anyway.”

Shacklebolt nodded his approval. “So what’s the next move?”

“The Polyjuice will be ready by the weekend. They were waiting for the bit of you to finalize their plans. There’s a meeting at midnight Saturday.”

Shacklebolt eyed him expectantly. “And?”

Harry darted a look at Robards then studied the floor and shuffled his feet. “And I was planning to go under my Invisibility Cloak.”

Robards snorted in a see-I-told-you-so sort of way.

“Alone?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry looked up nervously. “I’d rather not, but I’m not sure how to get backup there. My contact doesn’t know the location. They’ve given him a Portkey.”

“Tracking amulet,” Robards grunted, his face showing grudging interest. “We give Potter an amulet that acts as a homing device for a set of Portkeys that activate after he’s been in one place for three minutes. That way if the informant’s Portkey is just the first of a series, we’ll end up at the right place.

Shacklebolt began to pace, tapping his fingers together as he looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “That could work. But we don’t want to jeopardize Harry’s contact. He could be valuable long-term.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve promised to protect him. He’s worried about his m—er, family.”

Shacklebolt nodded and looked at Robards. “Thoughts?”

“Any idea how many will be at the meeting?” Robards asked Harry, finally giving in to his instincts for battle.

“No, but I could try to find out.”

“Do that. I need to know how many of our people to bring in.”

“Has your informant done this kind of thing before, Harry?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry studied the Minister for a moment as he thought about the question. Had Malfoy done anything like this? Did the horrors he’d had to perform in service to Voldemort count? “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that he may get caught in the crossfire and if he isn’t killed he could be captured and sent to prison. We don’t know who he is, so we can’t separate him from the rest. We probably wouldn’t anyway—we don’t want to blow his cover. But you need to warn him of the risks, if he hasn’t done this before. You’ll only be able to protect him so far.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll let him know.”

“Good,” Shacklebolt said, then looked at Robards. “Let’s keep this on a last-minute, need-to-know basis. We don’t know what other spies might be lurking about.” He turned to Harry. “Thank you. Let’s talk later in the week.”

“Oh, Harry—” Shacklebolt called as Harry reached the door. “You’re coming tonight, right? And Ron and Hermione? The Albanian Minister is anxious to meet the three of you.”

Harry stifled a groan, hoping his feelings weren’t written on his face. He’d forgotten all about the Ministry dinner that evening. It was the last thing he wanted to do tonight. At least Ron and Hermione would be there. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

As he stepped out the door, Harry heard the Minister ask Robards to stay a moment. Breathing a sigh of relief at the chance to escape the Head Auror’s wrath for a while longer, he sprinted off to catch the end of his training class.

***

“My, my. Don’t we look happy today?”

Ginny stopped in the process of spooning a bite of porridge and glared at Romilda Vane. “I was until you walked up. Do you like detention?”

Romilda sighed heavily. “I just don’t understand why you don’t like me, Ginny. I’ve done everything I know to do, but you just seem to have it in for me.”

“Why don’t you stop trying and go away? I like you so much better when you’re not around.”

With a flourish, Romilda settled herself on the bench across the table and propped her chin in her hand. “I just don’t get it.”

Ginny cocked an eyebrow and put the spoon in her mouth.

“What do they see in you?” Romilda cast a glance at Dean who was pretending not to listen as he indulged in his latest obsession—watching Lisa across the room. “You’re not especially pretty, you’ve got a figure like a twelve-year-old boy, and you’ve got a terrible temper. You must really be putting out to hold the attention of _two_ boys. Especially Harry.”

Ginny choked on her porridge and spewed it across the table as she coughed violently and gasped for air.

Romilda stood and, with a look of distaste, used her wand to siphon away the mess from her robes. “I thought so,” she said as she turned on her heel and flounced from the room.

By the time Dean had whacked her on the back enough to clear her air passages, Ginny was furious. “Where’d she go? I swear I’m going to kill her,” she said hoarsely, her eyes still watering and her breathing ragged.

“Ignore her, Ginny. She’s not worth it.”

“She insulted you, too, you know.” Ginny looked at him worriedly. Was it that obvious what she and Harry had been doing? Could he tell how close Romilda had come to hitting the mark?

He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I know, but she’s still not worth it.”

“She’d better hope she doesn’t run into me in a deserted corridor,” Ginny growled.

“Come on,” Dean said. “Let’s go to class.”

As they grabbed their bags and started to stand, the owls descended from the enchanted ceiling. Two of them landed in front of Ginny: Harry’s owl Leon and an unfamiliar owl carrying an envelope with all too familiar handwriting.

“Ah, bugger it. Missed her,” Dean said under his breath. Ginny looked up to find him frowning toward the door as Lisa stopped briefly to give them a strange look before dashing into the entry hall. “That was odd,” he murmured. “She looked scared or guilty or… something. Wonder what that was about?”

“Dunno. Maybe she forgot to finish an essay or something,” Ginny said as she loosened the letters and gave Leon a piece of bacon.

“You’re still getting those?” Dean tapped the anonymous letter.

“Yeah,” she said absently, stuffing the envelope in her bag and opening Harry’s note with a little worry crease between her brows. It was unusual to get mail from him on Mondays and she wondered if something was wrong. But the words he’d written instantly put a brilliant smile on her face and made her forget all about Romilda and Lisa and threatening letters:

_Love you._

_— Harry_

She felt like she was floating on clouds for the rest of the day.

***

“So, Potter,” Scott Summers said in an undertone as he sat next to Harry in the changing room and drummed his fingers on the bench (a habit he’d developed that annoyed Harry, no end). He scanned the room quickly as if to be sure no one else was listening. “What’s going on?”

“I’m putting on my shoes, Summers. What does it look like?” Harry replied without looking up.

Keeping his eye on the door, Summers shook his head. “No, you’ve been pumped and distracted for two days. Something’s up. I want in.”

Harry scowled and stood to finish putting his gear in his locker. The last thing he needed was Summers nosing around. “You’re imagining things.”

Scott stood and leaned back against the next locker, where he could watch the room and Harry’s face.

“I heard Robards yelling at you and I know they’re interrogating that bird from upstairs. You’ve been missing a lot of class, so I know you’re right in the thick of it. I want in. I’m bloody sick of training. I need some action.”

Harry kept his eyes carefully trained on the inside of his locker. “Yeah, well go talk to Robards. Or call Daphne, depending on which kind of action you want. I can’t help you, either way.”

A slow smile spread across Summers’ face. “Now that you mention it, I’d be willing to bet ten Galleons that you’ve been getting some of that action, too. First time, yeah?”

Harry bit back a curse as his face flamed. This was the second time someone had guessed. What good could he be as an Auror if everyone could tell what he was thinking?

“Ha-haaaa!” Scott sang out. “You are just _too_ easy, Potter. So, was it The Girlfriend, or did you pull some other bird?”

“Sod off,” Harry growled.

“Ah, The Girlfriend. She’s good, yeah?”

Harry pressed his lips together and concentrated on digging the holster for his extra wand from where it had fallen behind a stack of books. He ignored Summers’s mischievous grin.

“Well, if you need any, you know, advice—” Summers puffed out his chest and thumped it with his fist. “—I’m your man. You did remember to do the charm, yeah? You didn’t go making any little green-eyed, red-headed Potters this weekend, did you?”

Just as quickly as the blood had rushed to Harry’s face moments before, it now poured straight from his head to his feet. He’d had that flash of panic Saturday when he’d remembered the charm after the fact, and then he’d got distracted in thanking Ginny for her preparations. But he hadn’t actually thought about what _not_ doing the charm could mean—that by not doing it, all of his dreams could become reality. His heart’s desire was for a family, but he’d always thought in terms of parents and siblings and what he’d missed in the past. He’d never considered looking to the future. But now, hearing them described like that, the children he and Ginny could make, his imagination went into orbit. Time slowed to a standstill as visions of his future family flashed vividly in his head. It took several moments before he realized Summers was shaking his arm.

“Potter? Potter! Are you all right? Merlin’s balls, you didn’t—”

“No! No—we didn’t. We did the charm,” Harry said, willing his heart rate back to normal. He really did have to learn how to keep his feelings off of his face—especially when he next saw Ron and Hermione.

With a smile, Summers clapped Harry on the back. “Well, if you want any pointers, you know, ideas for improving your technique, just let me know.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Harry said dryly as he slammed his locker shut and turned to leave.

Summers pushed off from the lockers to follow. He had to hurry to catch Harry up in the hallway. “Listen, Potter, about that other thing. I’m going barmy sitting here all day. I’ve already been through this stuff once. You know I fought in the war. You know I can handle it. You’ve got to help, yeah?”

“I told you, I can’t—it’s not up to me,” Harry said irritably as they neared the lifts.

Summers grabbed Harry’s arm and stepped forward to face him. “I know you’ve got some influence. Please—”

Harry studied him for a moment before closing his eyes and huffing out an exasperated breath. He knew how Summers felt; he’d been feeling restless and anxious for action, too.

“Go talk to Robards. I’ll put in a good word for you, if I can. But I can’t make any promises.”

Summers gave him a brilliant grin before heading back down the hall.

When Harry reached the Atrium, he Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron and exited onto Charring Cross Road to begin his evening trek through Muggle London. With several hours to kill before his meeting with Malfoy, Harry wandered aimlessly, thinking about Ginny and their future family.

A glint of yellow flashed past his face from behind a hedgerow. Without thinking, he snatched it from the air like a Snitch. Harry inspected the dirty yellow tennis ball for a moment, but barely had time to wonder about its owner before a young boy burst through the shrubs.

“Careful there, mate,” Harry said, grabbing the boy’s arm to keep him from plunging into the street. “You need to check for cars first.” He released the boy and held the ball out to him.

The boy reached for the ball, then froze as his eyes turned to Harry’s face. His mouth fell open and it took a minute for him to make a sound. “Blimey! You—you’re him. You’re Harry Potter!” the boy finally squeaked.

Harry flushed and looked around in confusion. He’d grown used to being recognized in the Wizarding World, but this was a Muggle part of London, wasn’t it? He looked back down at the boy who was gazing at him in awe. Harry shifted uncomfortably—it didn’t feel right for anyone to look at him that way.

“Uh, yeah. Who are you?”

The boy’s mouth moved again, but no sound came out.

“Henry? Henry, where are you?” a woman’s voice called over the hedge. “You get back here right this minute, young man, or you’ll be scrubbing floors again for—” The rant stopped as a tired-looking woman with grey streaks in her brown hair stuck her head through the shrubs and caught sight of Harry.

“He’s okay,” Harry said, suddenly feeling sorry for Henry. How many times had he been caught in a similar predicament? “He just came after the ball.” Harry gestured toward the filthy yellow tennis ball now clutched tightly to Henry’s chest.

“It’s Harry Potter, Madam Mason. It’s Harry Potter,” Henry said breathlessly.

“Yes,” she replied, just as breathlessly. “I see that.” She gave herself a shake. “Well, you mustn’t bother him, now, Henry. I’m sure he’s got important things to do. Come on.” She grabbed the boy’s arm and started pulling him back through the hedge as he kept his eyes adoringly on Harry.

“Wait!” Harry said as they were almost out of sight. She leaned back through the leaves. “Isn’t this—is this a—” he dropped his voice and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was near, “—a magical area?”

She nodded. “We’re in a Muggle neighborhood, but they can’t see us unless we step outside the hedges. I keep trying to tell Henry that’s why he has to stay out of the street.” She hesitated a moment as if trying to make a decision. “You’re welcome to come in, if you’d like. But I’ll warn you, the children will probably go wild.”

“Children? You have more?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “This is a home for war orphans. We have nearly a dozen.”

Harry gasped as his heart clenched. A dozen! Nearly twelve children who were orphaned by the war with no other family to go to?

“Yes,” he said quickly. “I’d like to come in.”

The moment he stepped through the hedge (which was much like going through the barrier to get to Platform 9¾), all activity in the shabby play yard ceased. Harry took in the painfully forlorn scene: not a blade of grass could be seen, and the few toys strewn about were broken and dirty. A single oak tree in the center of the area was the only thing that looked like it was thriving, its branches sheltering the occupants of the garden like a mother hen over her chicks.

“We do what we can,” the woman said as she watched him cautiously. “But there’s only two of us—my mother and me—and the money the Ministry gives us has to go for food and clothing.”

Harry’s anger flared. “This place is Ministry supported? Or supposed to be?”

“Well, when we started we didn’t have so many children,” she said defensively. “We had only four and the money was enough. But we keep finding others who need us. We can’t turn them away, now, can we?”

Harry checked his rage and gave the woman a fleeting smile. “No. No, you can’t.”

He looked over the faces of the children who were slowly gathering around them. A couple of them were quite young, still in nappies, being carried by two girls who looked like they should already be at Hogwarts; the rest were boys and girls of every age in between. The ones who were old enough to recognize him were as awestruck as Henry. The younger ones just seemed curious about the stranger in their midst.

Henry suddenly stepped in front of Harry and spread his arms and legs to shield Harry from them. “He’s mine. I found him. Back off.”

Harry chuckled. “I think there’s enough of me to go around, mate.”

With that, the children swarmed forward, all trying to talk to him and touch him at once. Later, after he’d played with them for more than an hour and the daylight was long gone, Harry collapsed in exhaustion on the rickety steps to the kitchen. Henry, who was five and Harry’s new shadow, flopped down at his feet in the square of light cast on the ground from the kitchen window.

“You’re going to be an Auror, aren’t you?” the boy asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “In a couple of years.”

“My dad was an Auror. Did you know him?”

Harry sat up, his interest stirred. What was the child of an Auror doing in a home like this? Shouldn’t the Ministry be taking care of the families of fallen Aurors? He schooled his face to hide his resurging anger. “Dunno. What was his name?”

“William Henry Bloodworth. His mates called ’im Willie,” Henry said, sticking out his chest with pride. “I’m named after ’im.”

Harry shook his head sadly. “Sorry, I didn’t know him.” At the dejected look on Henry’s face, Harry offered quickly, “I’m named after my dad, too, you know. But I have his first name as my middle name instead of the other way ‘round like you.”

Henry brightened and pointed at one of the older girls across the yard, “My sister Julia says that it’s good that I have my dad’s name. That way he won’t be forgot. Is your dad an Auror, too?”

Harry swallowed the unexpected knot in his throat. “No, my dad’s dead. And my mum, too. Just like yours. They died when I was a baby.”

Henry took Harry’s hand, his eyes soft with sympathy. “You’re just like me, then,” Henry said solemnly. “Well, more like my sister, Sally, really—Madam Mason took her off to bed already. She’s just a year old, so Julia says she won’t remember Mum and Dad so we have to save all our memories so we can tell her about them when she’s older.”

At the casual, matter-of-fact words of a child, Harry nearly choked on his emotions and had to look way from the boy’s steady gaze. Three children, one just a baby, left without parents, without family to care for them. At least they had each other, but how many others were out there who had no one? Harry had never considered this cost of the war. The deaths of those fighting and the grief of family members left behind were bad enough, but what about the survivors who were left with no one? The ones too young to manage on their own? Or the ones who had been dumped on family who didn’t want them? He pushed the thought away, struggling to get his anger under control, and took a steadying breath before turning back to Henry.

“So what happened to your dad?”

Henry’s eyes grew dark and lit with a new fire. His voice was fierce with pride and determination. “He died fighting Death Eaters at Hogwarts. I’m going to be an Auror and fight Death Eaters when I grow up. Just wait. I’ll get them all.”

Harry squeezed the small hand that was still holding his. “Yeah, I bet you will, mate. They’ll turn and run when they see you coming.” He smiled at the boy’s grin. “So what about your mum?”

The dark eyes grew somber and sad. “Julia says she died of a broken heart. When my dad died, she got sick and one day she went to sleep and never woke up.”

Harry’s chest constricted and he had to struggle to breathe. He was grateful for the deepening night that hid the moisture pooling in his eyes. After a moment, he cleared his throat and asked without looking down at Henry, “You don’t have any other family?”

“Just Muggles,” a girl’s voice said. Harry looked into the shadowed blue eyes of Julia, now standing protectively behind Henry. “They wouldn’t take us. Not all of us, anyway. They offered to take Sally, but I thought we should stay together—in the magical world. It’s better this way.”

Harry nodded. “Yes—” he croaked through the persistent knot, “It’s better this way. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Julia nodded and studied him for a moment before nudging Henry in the shoulder with her knee. “Come on. Time to get cleaned up for bed.” She looked back at Harry. “Thank you for coming. And for being so nice to Henry.”

Harry stopped her as she turned to walk away. “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Shouldn’t you be at Hogwarts?”

She shrugged. “I got a letter, but there’s no money. And I promised Mum I’d take care of Henry and Sally. I can’t leave them here by themselves.”

Harry nodded, unable to speak any longer at the injustice of it all.

Henry jumped up and threw his arms around Harry’s neck. Surprised, Harry reflexively hugged him back.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Henry asked as Julia pulled him away, scolding him for being so forward.

“Yeah,” Harry said thickly. “I’ll come back. I promise.”


	12. Something About Lisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry offers a sympathetic ear to Ron and Hermione's troubles. Ginny tries to protect Harry from Lisa's dark secret.

“Okay, that’s the last of them,” Ginny said as she surveyed the neat stacks of photographs on the long table before them. “They’re all sorted. Now we just need to finish getting them mounted and labeled.”

“We’re working as fast as we can,” Dean said. He and Lisa Turpin had their quills moving furiously at the next table over, creating the tags to identify the year of each photo and the people in it.

“Ginny, who is this?” Dennis Creevey held out a picture of two boys—one blonde and one dark-haired—in Hufflepuff colors.

“That’s Ernie McMillan—looks like maybe his fourth year,” she said, pointing at the blonde. “But I don’t know who the other one is. Put it in the stack to ask McGonagall about.”

They’d been working all week to organize Colin’s photos for the gallery show, and hoped to have it ready to open to the school tomorrow. About three-quarters of the pictures were done, but it was going to be a late night. She hoped she’d get at least a few hours of sleep before Harry arrived in the morning, although she knew she’d probably end up napping with him later in the day after... well, just... after.

Ginny smiled to herself. This had been an amazing week. She still couldn’t believe how lighthearted and normal she felt—as if the cloud she’d been living under for the past few months had suddenly dissipated and the sun was finally shining through. Others had noticed as well. She publicly attributed the change to her work on the memorial and the photo display, although Romilda had come closest to figuring out the real reason, if not the whole story. Ginny fingered her invisible ring and sighed. The sadness over Fred’s death still lingered, but the pain wasn’t quite as sharp. And her nightmares of the war and Greyback had been replaced with lovely dreams of Harry. She finally felt alive again.

“I’m going to go find McGonagall so we can label this last stack.” Dennis’s voice brought her back to the classroom. “You want to go ahead and put the backing on the others so we can hang them when Dean and Lisa get finished so maybe we can get out of here before midnight?”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on it,” she said, pulling her wand to magically stick the photos to the backer board Lisa had got for them from her father’s art gallery.

Lisa had proved to be invaluable for this project and for the memorial downstairs. Her father owned several art galleries in Great Britain and on the Continent, so she knew all about setting up such displays. She’d also got the display panels that now stood waiting in rows through the center of the room. And, to Dennis’s giddy excitement, her father had offered to exhibit Colin’s work in three of his galleries after they were through showing at Hogwarts.

Ginny glanced over at Dean and Lisa who were quietly talking as they worked. Lisa was an enigma. She was friendly enough to Dennis, but while she hadn’t been overtly _un_ friendly to Ginny, she didn’t seem to want to get too close either. Sometimes she would go out of her way to avoid Ginny in the hallways. And a couple of times, Ginny had caught Lisa watching her across the room, but when she would offer a friendly smile, Lisa would just look away. Something was just off that Ginny couldn’t figure out. She wondered if Romilda’s influence might have something to do with it.

On the other hand, Lisa seemed to be warming up to Dean just fine. Ginny had thought it funny how bedazzled he’d been at first—as tongue-tied and clumsy around Lisa as Ginny had been with Harry when she was young. But Dean had got over his awkwardness fairly quickly and won Lisa over with his nearly obsessive adoration of her mother’s artistic talent. They had spent hours discussing art and artists, magical and Muggle. Ginny had always known that Dean was a decent artist and was interested in art, but she’d been completely amazed at his passion and depth of knowledge on the subject when he discussed it with someone equally passionate and knowledgeable. He and Lisa were quickly becoming good friends and Ginny wondered if, in time—and maybe not much time—they might move into something more.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy. She knew she was being selfish, but Dean had been “hers” since fifth year and she’d grown comfortable with the idea that he’d always be there, someone who adored her even if she only wanted him as a friend. But she was wearing Harry’s ring and would one day be his wife. Dean deserved that kind of happiness, too. She really did want him to find someone and if Lisa was the one, Ginny was determined to be happy for him, no matter what misgivings she might have.

With a final tap of her wand, Ginny finished mounting the first stack of photos and gathered them to set within Dean and Lisa’s reach. As she turned toward the other table, she knocked her book bag to the floor, sending its contents and her stack of pictures cascading across the room.

“Oh, bollocks!” she said as she knelt to pick up the mess.

“Miss Weasley!”

Ginny looked up into Professor McGonagall’s imperious glare; behind her, Dennis covered his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Sorry, Professor.” Ginny ducked her head to hide her unrepentant grin behind the curtain of her hair.

As Dennis and the headmistress moved to examine the stack of unidentified photos, Dean joined Ginny on the floor to collect the pictures and books and papers and quills that had scattered under the tables.

Dean held up a stack of envelopes that had fallen from Ginny’s bag. “I thought you were sending these to Harry.”

She looked up to see what he was holding—the unopened letters from her mystery correspondent—and shrugged. “I’m supposed to, but I’ve been busy this week so I thought I’d just give them to him when he gets here.”

“Still don’t have any idea who’s sending them?” Dean asked as he flipped through the stack.

“No, I don’t think it’s a terribly high priority in the Auror department,” Ginny said with a smirk as she stuffed her books into her bag. With an apologetic glance at Lisa, she added, “I suspect it’s probably Romilda, but we don’t have any proof.”

“Nah,” Dean said, still studying the top envelope. “I had to do a Muggle Studies project with Romilda. Her handwriting’s terrible. This writing is too per—” He stopped and stared at the bold block letters on the front of the envelope, then raised his eyes slowly toward Lisa.

Ginny followed his gaze to find Lisa looking as though she was staring down a basilisk. All of the blood had drained from her face and her eyes were the size of Quidditch goals. She was clutching her quill to her chest and backing slowly away from them.

“You,” Dean whispered. “It’s you.”

Ginny stood slowly, trying to process Dean’s words. Lisa was the one who’d been sending the letters that were intended to play on her insecurities, to make her feel unworthy of Harry? That just didn’t make sense. Why? What had she ever done to make Lisa hate her like that? Ginny wondered if Lisa knew how successful she’d been at first. Ginny wasn’t bothered by them anymore, but in the beginning…

Lisa bolted for the door. Dean was quicker and blocked her path.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he demanded in a low growl. “Did you give the picture of me and Ginny to the _Prophet_ as well? Are you the one who’s been feeding them information?”

Ginny watched in shock as Lisa tried to push past him. He grabbed her arm, sending photos skittering across the floor.

“Let me go!” Lisa said, her voice holding a note of panic as she struggled against him. “I’m late for a revising session. I have to go.”

“Answer me! You did it, didn’t you?” Dean’s angry voice echoed through the room.

Professor McGonagall hurried across the room. “Mr. Thomas, what is the meaning of this?”

“I think we’ve found our leak to the _Prophet_ , Professor,” he said bitterly, jerking Lisa around to face the headmistress.

“Miss Turpin? Is this true?”

Lisa began to cry and tried frantically to wrench her arm from Dean’s grasp. “No—it wasn’t me—I don’t know what he’s talking about…”

“She’s lying, Professor.” Dean shoved her away in disgust, but blocked the door so she couldn’t escape. “It’s her handwriting on those threatening letters Ginny’s been getting all year.”

“Miss Turpin, are you the one who has been sending the letters?”

Lisa cowered under McGonagall’s piercing stare, eyes wide as she frantically shook her head to deny it.

“A simple spell will provide the answer,” McGonagall said. “You would be wise to tell the truth, Miss Turpin.”

Lisa started to shake her head in denial again, then dropped to her knees with a strangled cry and buried her face in her hands. She rocked back and forth as she cried bitterly in defeat.

Ginny’s legs gave out and she sat down hard in a nearby chair. “But why?” she breathed. “What have I ever done to you?”

Lisa looked up, her eyes ablaze with fury. “It’s not you. It’s _him_! _He_ doesn’t deserve to be happy!”

That made even less sense. “Dean? Why doesn’t Dean deserve to be happy?”

“No! That—that—bastard, Potter!” Lisa spat. “It’s his fault she’s dead. He doesn’t deserve to be happy. He doesn’t deserve to live!”

“Harry?” Ginny shook her head, trying to make sense of the hysterical rant. “It’s his fault that _who_ is dead?”

Lisa crumpled to the floor, her voice wailing with grief. “My mother. It’s his fault. She’d still be here if—” Her moaning words were lost in a torrent of sobs.

With memories of the day she’d first met this girl in Myrtle’s bathroom, so distraught over her mother’s death, Ginny’s shock melted as she felt a bit of the pain she was seeing.

She sank down next to Lisa. “What happened?”

Lisa sucked in great gasps of air, working hard to gain control. After a moment, she stared toward the window and spoke through ragged breaths. “She was there—at the Ministry—the day they—they—set them free. She was called before Umbridge—a Muggle-born Registration hearing. My father was with her. They had the papers!” Lisa screamed as her anger flared again and she beat her fists on the floor. “They had the papers and she would’ve been okay! But _they_ broke in and made everyone escape. And she—she—”

Lisa worked to control her sobs. “My parents were running—and she stumbled. And they caught her—the Death Eaters—they caught her—they tortured her—the Cruciatus—until her heart stopped.” She looked at Ginny with hatred. “If Harry Potter hadn’t _rescued_ everyone, my mother would still be alive. I—I knew I couldn’t kill him—I couldn’t kill anyone. But I wanted to make him suffer like she did. I want him to hurt, to feel the pain that he caused. Why should he be happy? Why should he have you when I don’t have my mother any more? He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve anyone.”

“But why?” Ginny said, her own voice tight with unshed tears. “Why did you send the letters to me and not to him?”

Lisa gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, I _did_ send letters to him. Lots of them. But I kept getting those stupid form letters back and I knew he had someone handling his mail. He would never see them. So, when I saw him kissing you at King’s Cross, I knew—I knew that the best way to get to him would be through you.”

“And the picture?” Dean’s voice was cold. “You gave the picture to the _Prophet_ , didn’t you?”

Lisa’s eyes pleaded with him for only a moment before turning in pain from his icy stare. Her tears started again as she spoke to Ginny. “You don’t know how happy I was to be able to get that picture of you by the lake—because I knew it would hurt him. And when you and Potter fought over it—well, let’s just say thrilled doesn’t begin to describe how I felt.”

“But how were you able to tell them so much about the row?” Dean asked. “You couldn’t have heard it.”

“Romilda gives very detailed reports at the Fan Club meetings,” Lisa said. “And I take very good notes.”

Lisa’s shoulders sagged and she gave Ginny a sad look. “I almost couldn’t do it—the picture and the story about the fight. After—after you were so nice to me that day—in the bathroom. But then I remembered it was him I was trying to hurt and this was the best way to do it. And, in the end, you’d be better off, too, without him.”

Lisa looked back up at Dean. “I’m sorry. I would never—if I’d known—I—I’m so sorry.” She reached a hand toward him, begging silently for forgiveness.

A range of emotions crossed his face, but the one that hit Ginny hardest was raw pain. He backed away from Lisa, his expression finally settling into a look of disgust before he turned on his heel and slammed out of the room. Ginny thought she should go after him, but she couldn’t make her legs work. Lisa had crumpled into a sobbing heap next to her.

“I suppose you know what this means, Miss Turpin?” Professor McGonagall said in a tone that was both sympathetic and disappointed.

The blonde curls bobbed slightly in acknowledgment, although Lisa didn’t raise her head or stop crying.

“Come along, then. You’ll spend the night in the hospital wing and I’ll owl your father to come and get you in the morning.”

When they were gone, Ginny and Dennis stared at each other.

“Wow,” he said. “I never saw that coming.” He looked at the stacks of pictures for a moment before adding, “Poor bloke, he just can’t get a break, can he?”

At Ginny’s confused look, he continued, “Dean. He falls for you and you fall for Potter. He falls for Lisa and she turns out to be barmy. He can’t get a break.”

Ginny dropped her head into her hands. “I need to go find him.”

“Go on. I’ll lock up.”

***

“Thanks for these, mate,” Harry said, pointing at the box of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products he’d got for the children at the orphanage—trick wands, headless hats, reusable hangmen and Muggle magic tricks (they’d stayed away from the more mischievous items)—along with one box of Decoy Detonators for his “other project.” He’d just spent all of supper telling Ron and Hermione about the children he’d met on Tuesday and gone back to see on Thursday evening (with a bag of gold from his vault for Madam Mason, to help with expenses). He hadn’t told them of the other project.

“How much do I owe you?”

Ron leaned back in his chair and looked at Harry over the rim of his glass. “How ’bout I just put it on your tab?”

“Thanks. I’ll come ’round next week and settle up.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she levitated their empty plates to the sink and started spooning treacle tart into bowls. “You two have this same conversation every time. Harry, if you _ever_ get around to settling that bill, you’ll have to clean out your vault.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ron said, deadpan, as he took the bowl she handed him.

Harry grinned and took a bite of the tart. “This is good, Hermione.”

She glowed under his praise. Hermione was becoming a fairly good cook—not as good as Mrs. Weasley, but not bad at all. She’d definitely improved since their camping trip last year. Of course she approached it with the same focused determination as everything else she did, analyzing and measuring ingredients as carefully as she would for a potion in Snape’s class. Based on his own experience in the kitchen while living with the Durlseys, Harry thought she might be _very_ good if she’d relax a bit about it all.

“Looks like we might have some new products at the shop soon,” Ron said after a few minutes, swallowing his last bite as he held his bowl out to Hermione for a second helping. “George has started working on some ideas.”

“That’s great,” Harry said. “So, he’s doing better, then?” George had been barely functional following Fred’s death and Ron had carried a great deal of the burden of running the shop since they’d reopened in mid-summer.

“Yeah. He seems a whole lot better since Angelina started coming round.”

Harry stopped his spoon midway to his mouth. “Angelina? Johnson?”

“Yeah,” Ron said around a mouthful of tart.

“But wasn’t she dating Fred?”

“Well, they never actually dated after the Yule Ball,” Hermione said as she refilled their Butterbeer glasses. “They danced around each other for years, though. I think they would’ve eventually got together if—” She cast a quick glance at Ron. “If they’d had more time,” she finished quietly.

Ron laid his spoon down. That his bowl was still half full was the only sign the conversation bothered him. Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand.

Clearing his throat, Ron continued. “She stopped by a couple of weeks ago, on a slow day. She and George got to talking and she ended up staying for a couple of hours. They’ve gone to lunch twice since. Must’ve loosened something up in him ‘cause last week I saw a parchment on his desk where he’d doodled a couple of ideas. Today, he actually asked me what I thought of one of them.” He cut his eyes at Hermione and smirked at Harry. “It’s a line of undergarments that—erm—enhance, I guess you could say—certain body parts.”

“Oh, honestly, Ron!” Hermione said, her face a bright shade of pink. “How sexist can you get?”

“Oh, it’s not just for women. He’s planning a line for men, too.”

She just closed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation as the boys grinned at each other.

“So you’re taking all of that to the orphanage?” Hermione asked, gesturing at the box in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

“All but the detonators,” Harry said. “Madam Mason would kill me if I took those.”

“What are you using them for?”

Hermione was studying him a bit too closely, but Harry had his cover story ready.

“Just want to play a joke on someone at work.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but, as badly as he wanted to, he couldn’t tell them he might need a distraction for an ambush on a den of Death Eaters. Shacklebolt had said to tell only those who needed to know.

She rolled her eyes again. “So, what are you studying in training?”

“We’ve been working on concealment charms and disguises.”

“Cool,” Ron said. “Show us a disguise.”

Harry closed his eyes and waved his hand over his head. His hair lengthened and thinned and turned sandy brown. His nose and face grew fleshy and deeply scarred while his left eye bulged to twice its normal size.

Ron nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Hermione stared open-mouthed.

“Except for your eyes,” Ron gasped between howls of laughter, “you could be Moody’s brother.”

“Yeah.” Harry waved his hand to return himself to normal. “That’s what I’m shooting for. Thought it might freak out a Death Eater or two. But I can’t seem to get my eyes to change to blue—or any other color, for that matter. Don’t know what’s up with that. What?” he asked Hermione as she continued to gape at him.

“You did that without a wand!”

Harry gave her a crooked grin. “Oh, uh, yeah. Didn’t realize you hadn’t seen that yet. I’ve been working on it.”

“That’s amazing! Is it hard? Wandless magic, I mean.” she asked, her eyes alight with eagerness at the prospect of learning something new.

Harry shrugged. “I can only do simple spells, stuff that’s close by or affects me directly—just opening, closing, locking spells and such. I can’t disarm anyone yet or cast a shield spell.”

“But do you think I could learn?”

Face flaming, Harry studied his spoon intently. “I’m sure you could, but it’s—um—well, they tell me it’s unusual to do it this well so young—that most people are in their forties before they can begin to focus their magic well enough, if they’re able to do it at all.”

Hermione gave him a look of pride. “Well, _I’m_ not surprised you can do it. You had to grow up a lot faster than most people, didn’t you? I’ve known you were a really powerful wizard since you took care of those Dementors third year.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked for something to deflect her attention. “So, how are things in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?”

Her face fell and she sighed. “All right, I suppose.”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, catching Ron’s cautionary look too late to stop.

Before she could speak, Ron put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a consoling squeeze. “She can’t change the world overnight like she wants to.”

Hermione glared at him. “I don’t want to do it overnight. I’m just not doing _anything_ worthwhile and it looks like I never will. It’s all just one useless report after another, and they’ve more or less told me that there’s no way I’m ever going to move up in the department because I don’t have my NEWTs.”

“They’re mental,” said Harry. “You could run circles around the lot of them.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter because I don’t have the scores to prove it,” she said.

Ron snorted. “That’s rubbish—”

“No, it’s not, Ron! The department head thinks I only got the job because of Harry and without my NEWTs to prove otherwise, I’ll never get into a position to do anything that matters.” She blinked hard, no doubt to hold back tears.

“Well, just take the test,” Harry said. “I’m sure the Ministry will let you—”

“Harry! It’s been more than a year since I went to class. I missed a whole _year_ in _every_ course. How could I possibly—”

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ron said. “You could pass it with your eyes closed without even cracking a book.”

She abruptly stood and carried their dishes to the sink. Ron gave Harry a look that clearly said this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion.

After setting the dishes to washing themselves, Hermione turned around and wrapped her arms around her waist. Her eyes shifted uneasily about the room before coming to rest on Ron with a hopeful look.

“I’m—I’m thinking of going back to Hogwarts next term.”

Harry watched all of the blood wash from Ron’s face and something close to panic fill his eyes as the words dangled like spiders between them.

When he didn’t speak, Hermione continued, “I’m sure McGonagall—”

“You want to leave me?” Ron finally croaked.

Hermione threw up her hands. “This isn’t about you, Ron. It’s about me. I need to do this.”

“You want to leave me,” he whispered, a statement rather than a question this time.

“No! It’s not about leaving you. It’s about going to school to get my NEWTs so I can BE something one day.”

Harry watched quietly, his stomach roiling, wishing he could leave, but not wanting to call attention to himself. He’d watched them bicker and fight for years, but this was something entirely different and he really didn’t want to be part of it... or have to choose a side.

“You don’t have to go to school to get your NEWTs,” Ron said evenly, his face a mask of fear. “The Ministry will let you take the test without going back to school.”

“I need to go to school so I’ll be _prepared_ to take the test. Ron, please!” Her voice took on a pleading tone. “Please try to understand. I need to do this. It’s only six months—”

He stood suddenly, knocking his chair to the floor and slamming out the door to the garden.

“Come back here, Ronald Weasley!” she screamed at the vibrating door, then sank into her chair and dropped her head into her hands, obviously fighting tears. “I knew he’d do that. I knew he’d make it about him.”

Uncertain what to do or say, Harry stared into his Butterbeer and waited for her to collect herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a bit. “I probably shouldn’t have done that while you were here. I just—well, I just thought he might take it better if we weren’t alone.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think he would’ve taken it well no matter when you said it.”

“But you understand, don’t you?” Her eyes welled with tears as she waited for him to answer.

Harry concentrated on wiping the condensation from his glass as he gathered his thoughts. When she looked ready to speak again, he held up his hand to stop her.

“I understand,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But I understand his side, too. Hang on,” he said quickly as she opened her mouth to argue. “Let me explain.”

She crossed her arms and gave him an I-know-you’re-taking-his-side look, but didn’t speak.

Harry took a deep breath and plunged in. “I know why you want to go. And I know it’s not that you want to get away from Ron. But do you remember what I told you about when he destroyed the locket?”

She relaxed a fraction and nodded slightly.

“I think he’s scared, Hermione. I think he’s afraid you won’t come back.”

“But—”

“I didn’t say it made sense. Just—well, knowing Ron, that’s what I think. I mean, I know how he feels. I worry about the same stuff with Ginny, whether or not she’s going to want me the next time I go to Hogwarts or if she’s going to tell me to sod off when I turn up.”

“Harry, that’s crazy.” She reached a hand across the table to give his a squeeze. “Ginny loves you. She’s not going to tell you to sod off. And I’m not leaving Ron forever.”

Harry shrugged and watched the new drops of water form on his glass. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not something I—we can control.”

“You’re both being silly,” she said as she pulled her wand to conjure a tissue and blow her nose. He’d told her all of this before. He was surprised that she still wouldn’t believe it.

“So how _are_ you and Ginny doing?”

He smiled as the memories of the previous weekend flitted through his head. “We’re fine.”

“More than fine, I’d say.” She narrowed her eyes and studied him a moment. “You seem different. I don’t know, more content, more—oh!”

His face flamed at the look of understanding that lit her eyes. A slow smile spread across her face as his grew steadily warmer.

“Finally got there, have you?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and chanced a look at her before staring nervously at the fire. “Don’t say anything, okay? Not even to Ron. He’ll kill me—if the rest of his family doesn’t get to me first. Bill already threatened to hex me if I even thought about it. I can’t even imagine what Mrs. Weasley will do to me.”

Hermione giggled. “I think she might be the easiest one, actually. She doesn’t approve of Ron staying here, but she pretends not to know. I think she’s hoping we’ll name a date soon. If she knew about you and Ginny, she’d be planning the wedding and knitting booties.”

Harry dropped his head into his hands and peeked around at her through his fingers.

“You’ve already asked her, haven’t you? Given her a ring, too, I’d wager,” she said with a laugh, then her eyes widened. “Oh, please tell me she’s not pregnant already.”

At her last statement, he jerked his head up, both of his eyes bulging as much as the one had earlier. “What? No! She can’t—I didn’t—we did the—no!” He stopped and glared as Hermione laughed out loud. “She said you’d be able to tell—about the ring, I mean. Well, about both, but about the ring, too,” he said miserably. “Please don’t tell anyone. She doesn’t want the press to get hold of it. But she said you’d know just by looking at me.”

“Well, of course I’d be able to tell,” she said with a smug grin. “I do know you better than most people—probably better than anyone but Ginny, at this point. But don’t worry. Your secret’s safe—unless you give it away yourself.”

“Yeah, well I don’t seem to be doing such a great job of hiding it—at least about the first part, anyway. You’re the third person who’s guessed.”

“Oh, really? Who else?”

Harry winced as he realized his slip. He certainly couldn’t tell her about the first one. “Just a couple of people at work. I’ve _got_ to learn how to keep my thoughts from showing on my face.”

“Don’t worry. You did fine at keeping the Horcruxes a secret. I don’t think most people will pick up on it,” she soothed.

“I hope not. We don’t need the press working it out. Ginny’s got enough to be going on with just trying to finish school,” he agreed. At his last words, she cast a worried look at the door.

“He’ll come ’round,” Harry said.

She gave him a weak smile, then turned pleading eyes on him. “Would you talk to him?”

He rolled his eyes. “How do I get into the middle of these things?”

“Because you love us,” she said simply.

He shook his head in wonder, but stood and put on his cloak, grabbing Ron’s too as he went out the door. The late autumn nights were cold and Ron had gone out in only jeans and a jumper.

Harry found him pacing back and fourth down the cobbled path, hands jammed into his pockets, muttering to himself. He snatched the cloak Harry held out to him and snarled, “I know she sent you out here. I don’t want to talk about it if you’re going to take her side.”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Harry said wearily as he sat down on the steps. While Ron paced out his frustrations, Harry studied the unusually clear night sky. The constellations were harder to see from the midst of the brightly lit city than from Hogwarts. “You have that Deluminator on you?” he asked and snatched it from the air when Ron tossed it to him. He made quick work of the nearby streetlights. Out of habit, he looked first for Canis Major and Sirius, the “dog star,” even though he knew it was too low on the horizon to see with all the buildings in the way.

“I know why she wants to go. But I still don’t want her to.” Ron’s voice was sullen.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay.” Harry waited a couple of beats. “But we can, if you want.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

Harry had found Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, and Orion, and was trying to make out the faint path of Ursa Minor when Ron flopped down next to him.

“Shacklebolt asked me if I was interested in joining the Auror program.”

“What?” Harry nearly hurt himself whipping his head around to look at Ron. “You’re going to start training? That’s fantastic! When?”

“Don’t get too excited. You’ll probably be done before I even get to start.”

“But—”

“I told him I’d have to let him know.”

“But why? It’d be brilliant to go through the program together.”

“I can’t leave George,” Ron said tightly. “He’s better, but he’s not ready yet. Some days he can’t even find his way downstairs. Family’s got to come first, you know?”

Harry’s stomach clenched. Comments like that always hit him wrong if he didn’t see them coming, even though he knew they weren’t meant to hurt him. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. It came out more bitter than he intended, but Ron didn’t seem to notice.

“I haven’t told Hermione yet.”

“You should. She’ll be thrilled.”

“Yeah, about something that might never happen. And then she’d just be on my case about it.”

Harry couldn’t come up with anything to say that wouldn’t make Ron angry, so he kept quiet.

Ron puffed several misty breaths toward the stars. “I guess that’s part of it,” he said after a few moments. “She’s free to go chase her dreams, and I’m… not. She’s going to be something someday whether she gets her NEWTs or not. I’ll probably still be at the shop ten years from now. Or maybe forever. What have I got to offer her? She can go anywhere, do anything, be anybody— _have_ anybody she wants. She’d be mental to stay with me.”

They sat silently staring at the stars.

“Well, mate,” Harry finally said. “We’ve both known for years that she’s mental. I’d say your chances with her are pretty good.” 

“I guess,” Ron said. He didn’t sound convinced.

***

Ginny never did find Dean.

She spent a restless night worrying about him and Lisa and Harry. When she did finally drift into sleep, she was plagued by formless dreams swirling aimlessly until they finally consolidated into a nightmare that had left her screaming. Lavender had shaken her awake, but she couldn’t remember the details—only the blind terror that had set her heart pounding against her ribs and closed off her air passages.

At some point during the night, however, she’d realized something even more worrisome. Lisa’s pathetic attempts to get at Harry through owl post and the _Prophet_ had ended up being no more than an annoyance that had done no real damage. Ironically, Lisa hadn’t realized that she held a much more powerful weapon that could totally devastate him: guilt.

Ginny knew that as soon as he learned the circumstances of Lisa’s mother’s death, he would add the body to the pyre of guilt he kept strapped to his shoulders with all the others he felt were his responsibility: Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin, and even Snape, not to mention all of the people pictured in the memorial downstairs. Fiona Flannery’s death would be no less burdensome to him than the others—and might even be more so because she had been an innocent bystander. He would readily accept the blame as surely as if he had cast the curse himself.

Ginny was determined that he wouldn’t find out.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when she tumbled from the portrait hole and dashed to reach McGonagall’s office before Harry did.

“Professor—” Ginny drew up short as she burst through the headmistress’s door.

“Ah, Miss Weasley,” Professor McGonagall said, seeming unsurprised to see her. “I’d like you to meet Horatio Turpin, Lisa’s father.”

A tall, stately gentleman with a mane of thick grey hair took her hand in both of his and gave her a sad smile. Ginny looked into warm, nearly-black brown eyes set deep in a kindly face lined with grief and worry. His resonant voice was warm and soothing.

“Miss Weasley, please allow me to offer my deepest regrets for my daughter’s actions.” He cast a quick glance at Lisa who stood next to the fireplace with her head down. “I’m afraid she has taken her mother’s death much harder than I had imagined. I hope you and Mr. Potter—and Mr. Thomas, as well—will find it in your hearts to forgive us.”

“Yes—yes, of course,” Ginny stammered, then turned a pleading look at McGonagall. “But, please, I don’t think we should tell Harry about this. Please, Professor, you know how he’ll—”

But her words were cut off as the fireplace flared and Harry stepped out. Before she could react, Mr. Turpin stepped forward and shook his hand.

“Mr. Potter—such a pleasure to meet you at last. I only wish it could have been under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Harry,” Ginny rushed to Harry’s side as he gave the man a puzzled look. “This is Lisa’s father, Mr. Turpin.”

His face lit with recognition. “Oh, yes. Lisa’s been a great help with the memorial and Ginny tells me she’s been working on Colin Creevey’s photo display, too.”

As he finished speaking, Harry noticed Lisa, puffy-eyed and staring at the floor.  He frowned in confusion and concern. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” he asked with a questioning look at each of them.

“I’m afraid we’ve found our _Daily Prophet_ leak and the author of those mysterious letters,” said McGonagall before Ginny could intervene.

Ginny felt him tense as he looked in surprise at Lisa, who had begun to cry.

“But why? I thought—”

“It was me. She was after me,” Ginny said, pulling on Harry’s hand to get him to look at her so he wouldn’t notice the surprise on Mr. Turpin’s and Lisa’s faces. “I—I made Lisa angry at the beginning of the year and she was trying to get back at me. But I’ve come to ask Professor McGonagall not to expel her. She’s been such a help with the memorial, I think we’ve got past our problems and I know it won’t happen anymore. Right, Lisa?”

Ginny gave the girl a pointed look. Bewildered, Lisa nodded her head slowly in agreement.

Turning to McGonagall, Ginny mutely begged her to play along and added out loud, “Please, Professor. There’s no need to expel her. No real harm was done. Perhaps she can serve detention working with us to finish the memorial and Colin’s pictures?”

“If it helps any, Professor, I agree with Ginny,” Harry said.

McGonagall’s expression was a mixture of respect and disapproval. Ginny bit her lip, hoping the headmistress would see the wisdom in not heaping more guilt on Harry. By the time McGonagall finally spoke, Ginny was struggling to contain her nervous jitters.

“I suppose, Miss Weasley, Mr. Potter, that the two of you should have some say in the matter, given that you’re the ones who were most affected. However, I believe this situation calls for more drastic measures than detention. Mr. Turpin believes that Lisa’s actions point to some deep-seated problems that may require professional help.” She raised her brows at Mr. Turpin, who nodded in agreement. “I am going to send Lisa home for the holidays now,” McGonagall continued. “She may return next term to make up the work she missed and complete the year. But, I must say, I will not tolerate this kind of behavior again from any student.” She looked at Lisa. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” Lisa mumbled.

“Yes, Headmistress,” Mr. Turpin said as he put an arm around his daughter. “You are being more than generous. Thank you.”

Ginny gave a silent sigh of relief, but drew in a quick breath when she found Lisa glaring at Harry with open hostility. Ginny instinctively stepped in front of him to block the stare as if it were a hex. Fortunately, Harry was distracted by Mr. Turpin’s farewells.

By the time they had descended the moving stairs and begun making their way down the corridor, Ginny felt she could start to breathe again—until Harry turned to her and asked, “What just happened in there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Something was off. Like I missed part of the conversation or something. What did McGonagall mean about deep-seated problems?”

Ginny took his hand casually so she could steer him toward the Room of Requirement, but he stopped near the stairs and waited for her to answer.

Ginny drew a deep breath and stared at their clasped hands between them. “Lisa’s mother died. Last year. She’s having a hard time with it.” She watched his face to gauge his reaction. A small crease appeared between his brows.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did she die?”

Ginny looked out over the stairwell. “Death Eaters.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d only repeated what Lisa had told her in Myrtle’s bathroom.

Harry frowned and his voice grew hard. “Bloody bastards. We need to get them—the ones who got away.”

Ginny shuddered at the venom in his tone. “You’ll get them. When you finish training.”

He got a faraway look in his eye that worried her. “Yeah. We’ll get them.” He refocused on her. “Did you know Dolohov isn’t dead?”

She grimaced and shuddered as the memory of a dim cottage clouded her mind. “Yes,” she said with a hard voice. “Greyback mentioned it—last summer.”

Harry frowned as he saw her expression. “He killed Remus and Tonks, you know. He’s the one who cursed Hermione in the Department of Mysteries, too.”

“And he killed Mum’s brothers. In the first war,” she said.

Harry’s narrowed dangerously. “I had forgotten about that. All the more reason to get him.”

“But they’ll get him before you’ve finished training, won’t they?”

He looked into the distance. “Yeah... yeah, I expect they will.”

She didn’t like the wistfulness in his voice. He seemed entirely too eager to throw himself back into danger. Her stomach twisted with a rush of irrational fear as a vision of him lying lifeless at Voldemort’s feet flashed through her mind. Overwhelmed with the need to feel his heart beating next to hers, she stepped quickly forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’re shaking. I’m sorry I brought this up,” he said as he held her tightly.

She willed herself to calm down. “It’s okay. I’m fine. But I just realized I didn’t get a proper hello,” she said, turning her face up and pulling his down for a kiss. It started out sweet and soft, tender lips and darting tongues, but soon he pulled her closer and the intensity began to grow.

“Miss Weasley!”

They jumped apart, red-faced, at the sound of McGonagall’s impatient voice. Ginny wondered how long she’d been standing there.

“Might I remind you that, as Head Girl, you are expected to set a proper example for the other students?”

Ginny kept her eyes fixed firmly at McGonagall’s feet. “Yes, Professor. I’m sorry.”

“And, Mr. Potter, you also serve as a role model at this school. I trust the two of you can remember that and behave accordingly?”

Ginny looked up in time to see McGongall’s stern glare at Harry and his careful nod of agreement. “Yes, Professor.”

McGonagall looked back at Ginny. “That was a kind thing you did for Lisa.” She cut a glance at Harry before continuing. “I hope it doesn’t come back to haunt you.”

Ginny returned her look steadily. “It was the right thing to do.”

McGonagall held Ginny’s eyes for another moment before nodding curtly. “I’ll see you both downstairs. Don’t dawdle overlong.”

They waited for her to disappear from view before starting down behind her.

“What did she mean about it coming back to haunt you?” Harry asked.

“Dunno,” Ginny lied. “Guess she thinks Lisa might try something else after the holidays. I think it’ll be okay.”

They had barely got through the door of the Great Hall when Romilda confronted Ginny.

“You just couldn’t stand it, could you?”

Ginny rolled her eyes and tried to step past the girl. Romilda moved to block her. Ginny could feel Harry tense and was glad she was holding his wand hand.

“What do you want, Romilda?” Ginny struggled to hold onto her temper.

“You just couldn’t stand that she was distracting one of your admirers, so you got rid of her, didn’t you?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Ginny said through gritted teeth.

“Lisa. Dean Thomas was paying her too much attention, so you got rid of her.” Romilda turned to look at Harry. “You don’t realize how much time your _girlfriend_ spends with other blokes, do you? She just can’t stand to be without constant admiration. When you’re not here, she’s got to find someone else to fill the gap. If it’s not Dean, it’s Dennis, or Seamus, or Neville, or any other male she can find to feed her ego and do her bidding. I just hope you know what you’ve got yourself into.” Without waiting for an answer, Romilda flipped her hair and stalked off.

Quivering with rage, Ginny turned to Harry. He was watching the girl with undisguised dislike.

“It’s not true,” Ginny whispered. “None of it. I swear, it’s not true.”

Dragging his eyes from Romilda’s retreating back, his expression turned gentle and he squeezed Ginny’s hand. “I know. Just ignore her. She’s just jealous.” He moved toward the table. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Ginny said. Her stomach was in knots. She wasn’t convinced that he believed her.

“Well, let’s sit for a few minutes so McGonagall won’t get peeved, then you can show me Colin’s pictures.”

She did manage to relax and down a couple of slices of toast and a glass of pumpkin juice while Harry told her about the home for war orphans that he’d found. She was as outraged as he that the Ministry wasn’t supporting the home as it should. He told her Shacklebolt had said most of the Ministry’s resources were going into reconstruction to get the wizarding economy back on its feet. But Harry, being Harry, wasn’t satisfied with that and was making sure the home had enough money to tide it over. She smiled at his anecdotes about the children and his enthusiasm about the prospect of helping them. This was just one of the many reasons why she loved this man. He had a huge heart.

By the time he’d eaten a hearty breakfast and they’d inspected the latest additions to the memorial and wandered up the stairs to the classroom where Colin’s pictures were to be displayed, she felt much better. Laughing at something he’d said and thinking about picking up where they’d left off in the seventh floor corridor, she tapped the door of the sixth floor classroom with her wand and pulled him in.

The smile froze on her face.

“Bloody hell,” Harry whispered behind her. “What happened in here?”


	13. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean sows the seeds of discontent, leading Harry and Ginny to a long-overdue discussion. And Harry finds that Malfoy may not be all he seems to be.

Pictures littered the floor and mangled display panels teetered precariously in several piles. In the midst of the debris, Dean slouched in a chair, his long legs sprawled out before him, a firewhiskey bottle dangling casually from his hand. He watched them with a defiant gleam in his eyes.

“Dean, what have you done?” Ginny breathed. “Why?”

He didn’t respond, just held her eyes steadily as he took a swig from the bottle.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“Not yet,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But I’m gettin’ there.”

“Where did you get that?” She felt sick again. “You know I’m supposed to report this. You could be expelled.”

“Go right ahead, Madam Head Girl. Report me. Don’t much want to be here anyway.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He snorted. “I don’t? When did you become a Legilimens? Or is it like Trelawny’s Inner Eye?”

Ginny could feel Harry tensing beside her. She squeezed his hand and pleaded with him silently not to interfere before she turned back to Dean.

“Dean, please. Let us get you up to the dormitory. McGonagall doesn’t have to know—”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t care! What good is it, staying here? Nothing ever turns out like it should. I’m tired of trying and trying and trying and nothing I ever do is good enough. I’m done. I’m done with school. I’m done with her. I’m done with you. I’m done with him.” Dean pointed at Harry and pulled himself up to sway unsteadily on his feet. “When are you going to figure it out, Ginny? He’s poison. When are you going to learn that anyone he comes into contact with is doomed? He’s either going to mess up their lives or get them killed.”

Harry sucked in a breath, as if he’d been punched.

“Dean, please—” Ginny pleaded.

“No! I’ve held my tongue long enough because you didn’t want to hear it. I waited, hoping you’d finally see him for what he is. Then Lisa came along and I thought, okay, maybe I can start over, but _he_ had to go and bollocks that up, too. It’s all his fault that Lisa’s mother is dead and you _still_ want to protect him. It doesn’t matter that her life is shite as long as the great Harry Potter is happy.”

“Dean, please don’t—”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, then looked at Ginny in confusion. “What’s he talking about?”

Dean looked at Ginny and gave a sharp laugh. “Bloody hell, I’m right. You didn’t tell him, did you? Oh, please, let me do the honors.” He spread his arms and bent at the waist in a bow that almost sent him face first to the floor.

“No! Dean, please, you can’t—” Ginny ran to him and grabbed his shoulders, trying to shake some sense into him.

He brushed her off, then had to brace against her shoulder to regain his balance as he looked at Harry. “Lisa’s mother was Muggleborn. She had to appear before Umbridge last year.” He stopped and tipped the bottle to his mouth as he waited for Harry to process the information.

Ginny watched in horror as understanding washed over Harry’s face.

“She was there,” Harry said, his voice flat. “That day we got them out—”

“And Potter catches the Snitch!” Dean pumped his fist in the air and turned in a celebratory circle before weaving to a halt to eye Harry again. “Ah, but, you see, there was just one little problem… you _didn’t_ get them out. Not all of them.”

Harry went pale.

“Lisa’s mother got caught. They used the Cruciatus on her until her heart stopped.”

The knots in Ginny’s stomach twisted tighter. She started toward Harry as he backed toward the door, but Dean’s hand came down on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “Harry, don’t—” she pleaded. “It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Ginny,” Dean said. “He’s a big boy. What’s a little more blood on his hands?”

She whirled and raised her fist to beat on his chest. “Shut up! Just shut up!” With surprising quickness and accuracy given his state, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.

His voice grew soft and pleading. “Let him go, Ginny. He’s poison, I tell you. All those pictures of him with other women in the newspapers and magazines? You know where there’s smoke there’s got to be fire. I’d never hurt you like that.”

Harry turned and left the room.

“No! Harry, wait!” Ginny wrenched her arm from Dean’s grip, sending him sprawling.

Harry had made it to the next landing before she caught him.

“You can’t listen to him, Harry,” Ginny huffed as she hurried to keep up with him. He didn’t answer and her heart pounded more with fear than the exertion of climbing at a rapid pace.

When he reached the seventh floor, he turned to face her. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you try to hide it?”

Ginny opened her mouth to answer, but a group of students passed by, watching them curiously. She took his hand and turned pleading eyes on him. “Come with me. Let’s go where we can talk.”

He flexed his jaw muscles—a gesture she’d learnt meant that he was holding back anger—but let her lead him to the Room of Requirement.

***

He paced furiously, unable to be still.

She stood beside the couch, worrying her necklace, watching him with big, frightened eyes, but he couldn’t stop and comfort her. He had to sort through this first.

“Harry?” Her whisper was so low he almost missed it.

“Why?” It was all he could manage. If he said more, they’d both regret it.

“Because it wasn’t your fault. And I knew you’d—”

When she stopped, he rounded on her. “I’d what?” he yelled.

She returned his stare without flinching and her voice took up the challenge. “I knew you’d do just what you’re doing—you’d blame yourself.”

“ _She_ blames me, doesn’t she? She wasn’t mad at _you_. She was just _using_ you to get to me, wasn’t she?” He knew his voice was too loud, that he was taking something out on her that wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t help it.

Ginny looked away at that. “She’s not thinking straight. She misses her mother.”

“But she wouldn’t have to miss her mother if I’d done it right. If I’d made sure they all got away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You did what you had to do. If you’d stayed around to make sure everyone got away, you might have been captured or killed yourself. And then where would we be? Where would the rest of the world be if you hadn’t defeated Voldemort because you stayed behind to help one woman get away from Death Eaters?”

“So, her death was inconsequential? Just part of the greater good? Merlin, you sound just like Dumbledore.” He started pacing again.

“Harry, stop it! You know that’s not what I meant.”

He did know, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to be consoled. This was the second time in a week that he’d encountered children who’d lost parents to the war. He knew too well what that felt like. Finding the children of an Auror in an orphanage was bad enough—that man had at least chosen to fight—but this woman had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught in a badly formulated plan. His plan. Even if he, Ron, and Hermione had managed to muddle through and do what they’d set out to do, they’d mucked up other people’s lives in the process. Nothing was right about that.

He swallowed hard at the bile in his throat. This was Cedric and Sirius all over again—people dying because Harry Potter, the supposed Saviour of the Wizarding World, had made a bad decision. The twin demons of helplessness and hopelessness burst from the depths of his soul. He’d thought defeating Voldemort would finally lay them to rest. Apparently this was never going to end. He was going to be haunted forever by the ghosts of his own making.

Harry stopped with his back to Ginny and ran his hands through his hair. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe he’s right? Maybe I am poison. Maybe you’d be better off without—”

“Stop! Just stop!” Her arms came around his waist and she buried her face in his back. “Don’t say it. I wouldn’t be better off without you. I need you.”

Harry drew in great gulps of air. Those were the words he desperately wanted to hear, but knew he didn’t deserve. “You don’t get it, do you? She made you a target. You’ll always be a target with me. Maybe the next time it won’t be just letters and pictures in the newspaper. Maybe next time—”

She came around to face him and put her hand over his mouth. At the touch of her cool fingers on his lips, the fire went out of him.

“That’s enough! No one expects you to protect everyone all the time. You’re one man, Harry. Just one. You can only do what you can do. You have to let other people take responsibility for themselves.” She moved her fingers and wove them into his hair as she pulled his face down to hers and brushed his lips gently with hers. “I love you,” she whispered. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He conceded defeat with a shuddering sigh and clutched her to him, nuzzling her neck, inhaling her scent. How had he ever lived without this—the comfort of her arms, of her love? The intensity of his need frightened him… for her as much as for himself. Right this moment, he was quite capable of devouring her. But he couldn’t ask that of her now. Not while he knew Dean was right; that he had more blood on his hands. For now, just having her arms around him, her voice whispering soothing words in his ear was enough. In her arms he felt safe, sheltered from the demons seeking to destroy him. He craved her comfort like an addict and he’d take it, deserving or not.

***

Something was wrong. He was too quiet.

Ginny knew many women complained that their men went to sleep right after making love. Hermione had let slip once (much to Ginny's embarrassment) that Ron was often snoring almost before the deed was done.

But not Harry.

To Ginny's delight, Harry talked—and talked and talked and talked—while they snuggled afterward, as if together they had unlocked some hidden chamber in his soul, setting free all the thoughts and feelings he kept hidden from the world. Most of the time it was unimportant chatter, observations on life or the people and events around them. But sometimes it was more. Sometimes he shared things she was certain he'd never told anyone—things that he had, maybe, never even admitted to himself. And it made her love him all the more to think he trusted her with his deepest hopes and dreams and fears.

But now he was quiet. He wasn't sleeping, but he wasn't talking either. He was just lying there, staring into space, idly stroking her back. Although he seemed relaxed, she could sense an underlying tension.

She knew he was troubled about Lisa’s mother. That much was clear. After the scene with Dean and their subsequent argument, he’d seemed to need or want nothing more than to rest quietly in her arms. So she’d just held him for hours on the couch, worrying to herself about whether she could really be enough for him, if she could really give him what he needed.

They had agreed in their letters that disappearing completely during his visits might incur McGonagall’s disapproval, so they’d gone to lunch and spent a little time walking by the lake, avoiding other people as much as possible. Once back in the Room, their lovemaking had begun slowly—Harry had seemed almost reluctant at first—but soon, it had turned frantic, desperate, almost as if he thought it might be the last time.

Now he was quiet. And she was scared.

What could he be thinking? Was he angry with her for trying to keep the truth from him? He was probably brooding over Dean’s accusations, too. Surely, he didn’t really believe she’d be better off without him? He wasn’t thinking of walking away from her for her own good again? Her stomach lurched. It would be just like him to do something stupid like that.

She couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. She pushed up on her elbow. From the look in his eyes, she could tell he was a million miles away. She waved a hand in front of his face.

“Where are you?”

He focused on her, at least as much as he could without his glasses. “Huh? Sorry. Did you say something?”

“What’s wrong?”

He frowned a bit. “Nothing. I’m fine. Why?”

She rolled her eyes. He was anything but fine. “Because you haven’t said anything in half an hour. You always talk after we shag.”

“Don’t call it that. You know it’s more than just shagging.”

“Don’t change the subject. What’s wrong? Are you still cross with me?”

“No! Of course not,” he sputtered. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I tried to hide the truth about Lisa’s mother and now you’re not talking.”

He sighed. “I wish you hadn’t, but I know why you did. I can’t be angry about that.”

“Then what’s wrong? You’ve got something on your mind. I can tell.”

He rolled to his side and turned her over to spoon up next to him, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping his arms tightly around her. She’d really rather be able to see his face, but she didn’t object. He seemed to need the closeness.

“You understand why I need to become an Auror, don’t you?”

The question took her by surprise. He’d wanted to be an Auror since he was fourteen. He was good at defensive spells and solving mysteries. It seemed to be what he was born to do. “Because you’re really good at it?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that. Robards would probably say not. But I guess that’s part of it.”

She turned in his arms and slid up even with him on the pillow so she could read his face. “So what’s the other part?”

He gave her a searching look, a silent plea for understanding. “After Voldemort was defeated—”

She couldn’t resist smiling—he never said, “I defeated Voldemort.” He saw it as a team effort, no matter what the rest of the world said.

 “—a part of me thought that was the end. The prophecy had been fulfilled, so I could get on with my life and live happily ever after. I mean, the sane part of me knew better, but I was just so relieved…” he trailed off and got that faraway look in his eyes again. She always wondered where he went when he did that, but she waited patiently until he came back. “I went into the Auror program because that’s what I’d always planned to do. At first, I thought they had just let me in because—well, because of last spring. But it’s been good. I’ve learned a lot and, well, I guess I _am_ good at it.”

This time her smile was proud as she smoothed his fringe from his eyes. “Of course you are. I’ve known that forever.”

“But I’ve just started to realize _why_ I have to be there.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “It didn’t end when Voldemort went away. There are more of them out there—Dolohov and others—who want the same things Voldemort did. Or things just as bad—some maybe worse.”

Ginny’s heart clenched at the look in his eyes, the determination to conquer all of the evil in the world. This was what scared her. She was selfish enough to want to keep him close to her, safe from the devils who’d destroy him. But he’d have none of it, though—quite the contrary. She could tell he was already itching to get back into the fray and the thought suddenly terrified her.

“Harry, you’ve already saved the world once. Let someone else have a chance.” She tried to keep her voice light, but didn’t much succeed.

Was that disappointment or fear that flashed through his eyes before they turned so intensely green, burning with resolve?

“But don’t you understand? That’s how Voldemort got to where he did—people, like Fudge, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening or waiting for somebody else to do it.”

Ginny was beginning to panic. What was he trying to tell her? She sat up and wrapped her arms around herself. “Fred died. And you nearly did. We all nearly did. Haven’t we given enough?”

He sat up, put on his glasses and gripped her shoulders. “Would you say that if the same thing happens again? Would you want to sit back and let Dolohov or some other Dark Wizard turn our world upside down again? That’s why we have to stop them before they get started. For Fred. For my parents… Remus and Tonks… Cedric and Sirius… Lisa’s mother… We—I—have to be sure they didn’t die for no reason.”

“Nobody thinks they did.” Her voice went up a notch as the fear burrowed deeper. “Voldemort was to blame. You don’t have to atone for his sins.”

He loosened his hold on her a slumped back on the pillow. “I thought you understood. I thought you knew…”

She clutched his hand to her heart. “I do, Harry. I do know. You feel this insane need to protect everybody, to get rid of all the danger. But I’m scared for you. I’m scared for me. You’re going to go throwing yourself out there and those Dark Wizards you talk about would give their souls to take down The Boy Who Lived, to do what Voldemort failed to do. I thought I lost you once. I can’t go through that again. I just can’t.” She knew she was beginning to sound a bit hysterical, but she didn’t care.

He sat up and pulled her close. “I’ve told you before, I’ll be okay. They’re training me to take care of myself. What did you think my being an Auror would mean if you don’t want me to go after Dark Wizards?”

She blinked hard against his chest, fighting to calm herself. “I don’t know. I—I’ve tried not to think about it too much. I mean, you’re still training, right? You won’t be going after them—you won’t be out there where they can get you—for two more years, right?”

He took a little too long to answer and then his words seemed too carefully chosen.

“I won’t be given a field assignment until I finish training.”

She pushed herself away to study him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. She’d been reading him for too many years not to recognize the look on his face.

“You’re in the middle of something. What’s going on?”

Her heart was doing its best to break free of her ribs as she watched him carefully polish his glasses on the sheet before settling them on his nose and taking her hands in his. This could not be good. He was thinking too hard, planning his words. She wanted to shake him, make him just spit everything out.

“I have to leave a bit early tonight,” he said evenly as he watched for her reaction. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, then nodded for him to continue. “Someone came to me with some information. He won’t talk to anyone else. I have to meet him tonight.”

Fear coiled through her chest and questions bounced like Bludgers trapped in her head. Most, she knew, he wouldn’t answer, but she asked anyway, the note of hysteria in her voice notching a bit higher.

“Who? Why? Why you? They can’t allow this, can they? Robards and the Minister? You’re just a trainee. Why would they let you do this?”

He ignored all but the last question. “They don’t have a choice. It’s good information and I’m the only one who can get it.”

She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them, concentrating hard on quelling the rising panic in her brain. It was too soon. She had two years before she had to deal with this.

“Ginny? Are you okay?” He sounded worried.

She nodded against her knees, then mumbled into them. “Is it dangerous?”

She didn’t miss the slight pause before he answered. “It’s a meeting. It’ll be fine.”

Maybe it was the pause, maybe the tone of his voice, but she didn’t believe him. She raised her head to find his face right in front of her, and she didn’t argue when he put his hands on either side of her head and kissed her. Oh, how she wanted to believe him. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe everything would be fine.

“You promised,” she whispered when he drew back. “Remember? You promised you wouldn’t let me be surprised.”

“I remember,” he murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

He pushed her back down to the pillows and almost made her not care that she didn’t really believe him. Almost, but not quite.

***

_The darkness closed about her like water. She could hear it coming. Terror-filled, she tried to run, but her legs were weighted, unwilling to move. The smell of blood and death washed over her like a tidal wave, strangling her scream as her lungs filled with the stench and the darkness, drowning her voice._

_Harry! She had to find Harry. They were coming. Flailing helplessly against the panic pulling her under, she gasped for air. They were getting closer. She had to find him. Where was he? A faint light glowed in the distance, like a single candle at the end of a long dark tunnel. She fought her way frantically through the shadows that sucked at her, drawing her into the void. She could hear the footsteps, closer now, and raspy breathing bearing down on her. She couldn’t get away. And the hissing, the unmistakable sound of Parseltongue. No! Harry!_

“Ginny!”

_Harry where are you? I can’t find you. Her sobs were choking her. Oh, god, no it was grabbing her, fingers biting into her shoulders. She flung her arms out, fighting for her life._

“Ginny! Wake up!”

Her eyes popped open, unseeing, panic stricken, as she continued to struggle.

“Ginny! It’s me. I’m here. Wake up!”

The words made no sense, but she latched onto the green eyes staring into hers like a lifeline. Harry—she’d found him. She threw her arms around his neck and wailed uncontrollably. He held her tight, murmuring into her ear until the storm subsided.

“Are you okay?” he asked when she had stilled in his arms.

She nodded against him. “I couldn’t find you. They were coming and I couldn’t find you.”

“You’re okay. I won’t let them get you.”

“No! They were after you. I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t stop them.”

“It’s okay, Ginny. I won’t let them get me, either.”

She pulled back to see if he was taking the mickey, but his eyes were somber, his face serious.

“Don’t leave me, Harry.”

“We’ve got a couple of hours. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No—even then—don’t leave me. Take me with you.” Her voice became shrill and urgent as the feeling of dread coiled through her again. “I don’t want to stay at school anymore. I don’t need to finish. I can work at the shop with George and Ron. You can work there, too, and we’ll all be safe. I won’t have to worry about you anymore. Harry, please don’t leave me. Please.”

His eyes filled with concern. “Ginny, it was just a nightmare. I know they seem real. I’ve had plenty of them. But it’s okay now.”

She pulled away from him and got to her knees. “No, Harry. I mean it. I have a bad feeling. Please don’t leave me. Please take me with you.”

He sat up and tried to pull her to him, but she shook him off.

“No! Harry, you can’t leave me here. You can’t!”

“Ginny, your parents—”

“I’m of age. I don’t have to stay here if I don’t want to.” She was becoming more hysterical by the moment. “Fred and George did it. I can leave if I want. I—”

“Ginny!” Harry gave her a little shake and she collapsed against him in tears.

***

After the nightmare, it had taken him nearly a half hour to calm her and another hour to convince her that she couldn’t keep everyone safe by leaving school. But even before that, she'd been far more upset than he'd expected.

Worry, perhaps anger, and maybe a few tears—he’d expected all of that. But her frenzied panic had taken him completely off guard. She'd never been one for tears—at least until last summer. She'd had a hard time of it for more than a year now. Last year must've been a bloody nightmare with the Death Eaters in charge of the school, then all of that business with Greyback on top of Fred's death, and this year with the attention she’d been getting from the press and the stress of studying for NEWTs. Harry was trying to be understanding, but how did she expect him to be an Auror and never face danger?

He’d hated having to leave her like that, looking like the Hogwarts Express was bearing down on her full-throttle. But with a lingering kiss and a promise to be back early in the morning, he’d left her at the portrait hole at a quarter to twelve and hurried off to get to Weasley’s by the appointed time—being late wasn’t an option.

He was convinced he hadn't been lying when he'd told her tonight’s meeting wouldn’t be dangerous—maybe a little risky, but not dangerous. Robards and Shacklebolt had assured him this was a relatively routine mission. They'd planned it as meticulously as possible, given they hadn't a clue where they were going. But they'd told him it was far less dangerous than many they'd completed with ease during the war. And besides, his part, much to his irritation, was just to get the team there and get Malfoy out. He wasn’t even supposed to join the fight. And if anything went wrong, he was under orders to abandon the mission and get out as quickly as possible.

Harry groaned in frustration to himself. If something this minor was going to upset Ginny this much, they had a problem. Tomorrow, they were going to have a long talk and re-negotiate the “no surprises” promise.

***

Ginny stood for several moments outside the portrait hole, staring at the empty corridor, still quivering from the after-effects of her dream. She gasped at air that refused to force its way into her lungs and clutched her arms tightly around her waist in a desperate attempt to contain the nausea crawling through her insides.

Déjà vu swept over her. This couldn’t be happening. He was leaving her again to go fight Dark Wizards, just like the summer before last. She was going to be left behind again to worry and wonder if he was ever coming back.

“Damn you, Harry Potter! I can’t _do_ this again,” she hissed into the darkened passage.

“You’ve done it for months, dearie,” the Fat Lady said. “You know he always comes back.”

Ginny swiped angrily at her eyes, still focused on the last point she’d seen him. “I hope you’re right,” she whispered.

***

Harry was waiting under his Invisibility Cloak in the alley behind the shop when Malfoy slipped from the shadows.

“Stupid git. Knew he’d be late,” Malfoy muttered, then nearly jumped from his skin when Harry spoke up right next to him.

“I’m here.”

“Shite! Don’t _do_ that! You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Keep your voice down! George lives right overhead. You’ve got the Portkey?”

Malfoy sent a scathing look in the direction of Harry’s voice. “No, I left it in my other robes. Of course, I’ve got it.” He held out a small card.

Harry squinted at it in the dim light, then whooped with laughter.

“Shhh,” Malfoy hissed, then growled, “Damn Death Eater humor.”

Harry swallowed another laugh and quickly put his finger on the Chocolate Frog card as his own likeness glowed blue.

With three hooded wizards waiting for them in the wooded clearing, Harry was never more grateful that his Auror training had taught him how to stay upright on Portkey landings. Falling in a heap with his feet showing beneath his cloak would’ve been disastrous. He didn’t miss the fact that Draco came to rest in Full Malfoy Pose—the familiar imperious stance designed to cow lesser beings.

“Malfoy,” one of the wizards growled. “’Bout time yeh got here.”

“The Portkey was set for midnight. I came when it activated.”

The wizard grunted, lit his wand, and headed into the dark woods. Everyone followed. Unable to light his own wand, and with Malfoy not having one, Harry tripped along in Malfoy’s wake, stumbling occasionally in the darkness.

This was the trickiest part of the operation. Harry had to stay close to Malfoy in case another Portkey came into play, but he also had to stay out of the way so the others wouldn’t bump into him and detect his presence. He wondered that they couldn’t hear his heart as it battered itself against his ribs. The pounding in his chest and the trip into the woods reminded him strongly of his springtime foray into the Forbidden Forest to meet Voldemort—yet it was different. Then, he’d been terrified. Now, he felt exhilarated, pumped on adrenaline, but also oddly at peace. In spite of the danger, in spite of having upset Ginny, he felt as if this were where he was meant to be, what he was meant to do.

As they trudged down the narrow overgrown path, Harry had to work to keep branches and brambles from snatching the cloak off. After ten minutes or so, the trees gave way to another clearing that sheltered a great stone building—a barn, perhaps, with a thatched roof so eaten with age the flickering firelight from within sent bright fingers twitching toward the stars.

As he scurried to slip through the door before it closed, Harry nearly plowed into the back of Malfoy who had drawn up short.

“This is a bigger group than I was expecting,” Malfoy said with an edge of irritation that could be interpreted as disdain.

“Yeah, well, we done a bit a recruitin’ since yeh last came,” the wizard replied before ambling off into the crowd.

Harry looked around in surprise. The gathering was at least twice as large as they’d anticipated. Robards was bringing two dozen Aurors, but they’d be outnumbered three to one. Once Harry had been standing still for three minutes, the amulet around his neck would act as a homing device for several Portkeys to bring the Auror contingent right into their midst. It would be dangerous under any conditions, but now that the odds were so out of balance, he wondered if he shouldn’t slip out into the forest so the unit would have a chance to adjust their plan of attack. Before he could act, though, a great blonde wizard, who Harry recognized as Thorfin Rowle, stepped in front of the door and Dolohov called the meeting to order. Harry’s stomach churned; the next three minutes were going to be the longest of his life.

“QUI—ET!”

As the hum of chatter died away, Dolohov raised his hand above his head to display a glass phial. “We have the Minister of Magic.”

Harry smirked under his cloak as the crowd roared its approval. Dolohov seemed to enjoy putting on a show. It was a shame that the phial contained only cat hair, delivered to O’Malley’s contact earlier in the week by a Polyjuiced Daphne.

Pressing himself to the wall to avoid a burly wizard moving behind the crowd, Harry watched Malfoy get pulled further into the group. He’d told the git not to wander off once they got where they were going. Harry’s first priority when the action started was to get Malfoy out, and he surveyed the room to work out his plan. The door they had come in was the only exit he could see; another door, apparently leading to a storeroom, was immediately to his right. Stalls lined the opposite wall and in front of them Dolohov stood on a makeshift platform outlining the final plans for the Gringott’s attack on a glowing diagram that floated in mid-air.

Harry stared at the twisted dark face of Dolohov, his mind jumping back to the last time he’d seen the man up close in that shabby café after they’d left Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Harry itched to curse him now, to avenge the death of Ginny’s uncles and Teddy’s parents, but Dolohov’s next words shocked away all thought of action.

“—we owe a debt of gratitude to our patron for this great mission, Draco Malfoy.”

Harry’s attention shot to Malfoy as the crowd cheered. Malfoy had funded the overthrow plot? He’d said the family assets had been seized. Harry’s heart pounded furiously and his stomach twisted in dread. This was a set up! The bastard had fed him a sob story and he’d swallowed it like a huge helping of Molly Weasley’s treacle tart.

“Come, Draco. Please give us a few words of encouragement,” Dolohov said smoothly.

With only the slightest hesitation, Malfoy drew himself into his lord-of-the-manor posture and strode purposefully to the platform. Harry swore under his breath; he had to wait to follow until the amulet activated, but, in his opinion, this turn of events pretty much negated his promise of protection.

Malfoy stepped onto the platform and the raucous applause died only a split second before the room glowed blue. The Aurors managed to take out a number of Death Eaters on the first volley.

As chaos erupted, Harry plunged into the crowd, still under his Invisibility Cloak, ducking and weaving his way between shouting wizards and jets of light, intent only on getting to the platform so he could be sure of the chance to hex Malfoy to hell and back when this thing was over.

When he broke through the crowd, Harry saw Malfoy cowering against the back wall of one of the stalls, whimpering every time spell-fire exploded into the stone behind him. With a great leap, Harry tackled him and rolled them both over, Disapparating them into the woods behind the barn.

“Merlin, I’ve never been so glad to see you—” Malfoy said as they got to their feet, but stopped short as Harry whipped the Invisibility Cloak from his head and slammed him against a tree, wand pressed dangerously into his Adam’s apple.

“You set me up, Malfoy!” Harry breathed furiously into fearful grey eyes. “Give me one good reason—”

“No, I swear! I swear, Potter. I didn’t know there would be so many—”

“What about the rest? You’re bankrolling the whole thing! What happened to ‘they seized our assets?’ You lied! The whole thing was a lie!”

“No! I swear it’s the truth. They took our British assets, but we have more…on the Continent. Why do you think they bother to keep me around?”

“So what other little details have you left out?”

“Nothing. I swear. Everything else is true. I didn’t know there would be so many. But they didn’t know you were coming. They don’t know _you’re_ here.”

Suddenly, a great explosion sent a shower of stone and splintered wood out the side of the building and the sounds of the battle within raged louder.

Harry jabbed Malfoy in the neck with his wand. “I have to go, but I’m not through with you.”

“You’re not going to leave me here!” Malfoy clutched desperately at Harry’s arm as he stepped back. “You’re supposed to get me out. You promised to protect me. I don’t have a wand and I don’t know where we are. How am I supposed to get home?”

“That’s your problem, Malfoy. Just remember, no matter where you end up, I’ll find you.”

“Potter, wait—”

Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak from the ground and sprinted toward the barn. Pressing himself into the shadows, he worked his way carefully around the corner and peered into the hole left from the explosion. Several Aurors were down, but many more Death Eaters were Stunned or injured. Harry cast a Shield Charm to deflect curses from Summers and Biggerstaff.

“Thanks, Potter. Come to join the fun, yeah?” Summers flashed a grin as he Stunned his opponent and plunged back into the skirmish.

“Yeah, leave some for me,” Harry called after him.

Just as Harry shifted his weight to follow Summers into the fray, a searing pain shot through his back like a bolt of lightning, igniting every nerve in his body.

And everything went black.


	14. Any Minute Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Harry doesn't show up on Sunday morning, the worst of Ginny's demons take over.

Any minute now.

She’d been telling herself that for hours. Or what seemed like hours. She really had no idea how long she’d been sitting here, worrying her ring and staring down the gargoyle. But any minute now that hideous chunk of stone was going to leap aside and Harry would step from the moving staircase and all would be well.

She tried hard not to blink—blinking might break the spell. Tears would bring blessed relief to her burning eyes, but she couldn’t allow them to come. Once they started, she knew they’d never stop and she couldn’t let herself think about why she wanted to cry because then she’d have to admit that something was wrong. And nothing was wrong. It was Sunday and Harry was coming, just as he always did.

Any minute now.

When stone finally scraped against stone, the world seemed to stop. The only movement was the staircase and her heart thumping painfully against her ribs. Everything was waiting for him, as if he was the center of the universe. He _was_ the center of _her_ universe.

She slowly pushed herself from the floor. Please, dear Merlin, please…

The sound ground to a halt and and ice water flooded her veins. She closed her eyes and clung to the wall for support, unable to hide from the truth any longer.

“Miss Weasley! Are you all right?” Professor McGonagall stepped from the opening, brow creased in concerned.

Ginny opened her eyes and licked her parched lips. Her mouth moved in response, but she found no air in her lungs to force sound from her throat.

“Ginny, what’s wrong?”

Sounding a bit panicked, McGonagall reached out to her, but Ginny flinched away. If anyone touched her now, she’d break into a million pieces. She could get through this if she could keep the feelings away, if she could hang onto the wonderful cold, numbness that had begun to take hold.

Fighting for breath, her voice finally came out broken and raspy. “Professor, may... may I use your Floo? I... I think something’s happened to Harry.”

“Happened? What could have happened since last night?”

“He... he was... please… I need to check on him.”

Something about the way she looked apparently convinced the headmistress.

“Yes, yes. Let’s go.”

Once in front of the fireplace, it took Ginny two tries to croak out “12 Grimmauld Place” loudly enough to make a connection.

“Harry! Harry, are you there?” she called desperately into the fire then gave a moan of despair when Kreacher appeared.

“Master Harry is not here,” the ancient elf told her impatiently. She hadn’t yet had a chance to establish a better relationship with him since her one summer at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, and he didn’t appear to hold her in any higher regard now than he did then.

“Do you know where he is? When did he leave?”

Unmoved by her urgent tone, Kreacher took his time in answering. “He did not come home last evening,” he finally bit out.

Ginny didn’t even bother to say goodbye before she threw in more Floo powder and called out a second address.

“Hermione! Ron! Herm— oh, there you are.” Relief and terror fought for control; she beat them both back desperately.

“Ginny, what’s wrong?” Hermione’s worried face came into view as she dropped to her knees by the hearth. Ron stumbled sleepily into the room behind her.

“Have you seen Harry?”

“No. He’s not with you?”

“No,” Ginny said, the panic starting to creep into her voice. She swallowed hard. She had to keep the feelings away or she’d lose it completely. “No, he’s not here. He didn’t—Kreacher said he didn’t come home last night. I’m afraid—I think something’s happened to him.”

Hermione exchanged a worried look with Ron. “Something’s happened? Like what?”

“He said—” Ginny swallowed hard at the knot forming in her throat and drew a couple of deep breaths, hot ash burning her lungs as she did. She had to stay calm, cling to the numbness. “Last night, he left early. He was meeting someone. Someone with information on—well, he didn’t say, exactly, but we were talking about his Auror training and Dolohov’s name came up. I think Harry’s going after him.”

“Dolohov? Wasn’t he killed—”

“No. No, he’s alive—he’s—Harry said he’s the one who killed Remus and Tonks and cursed you in the Department of Mysteries.”

Ron growled something he wouldn’t be able to repeat in front of his mother, then added, “...got Mum’s brothers, too.”

“Hermione, you should’ve seen his face,” Ginny continued. “He had that look he gets—you know the one, when he’s made up his mind about something.”

“Yes, I know just what you mean. Are you sure about this? He’s just a trainee. They wouldn’t be sending him out in the field yet.”

Ron snorted. “You know Harry. How would they stop him? That’s what he wanted those Detonators for, I’d wager.”

Hermione sighed in agreement and turned back to Ginny. “Are you sure it was Dolohov he was going after?”

“That’s who he was talking about. And then he left early last night and he hasn’t come back yet and he didn’t go home and—” She broke off and took several deep breaths. Numb… calm… numb… calm… no feelings… no feelings… It was becoming her mantra. “Please, can you see if you can find him?”

“I’ll go to the Ministry now and Floo when I find out something. It may take a while.”

“I know,” Ginny said, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

Staring into the grate for several minutes after they were gone, Ginny drew her knees close to her chest and sank into the emptiness inside her. She had to hang onto the numbness or she’d go mad.

“Ginny?” Professor McGonagall’s voice gently called her back to the present. Ginny had forgotten she was here, listening to everything. “Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—”

Ginny stared vacantly into the fire. “No. No, please, I need to stay here. Please...”

McGonagall grunted sternly. “What you need is some tea and some breakfast and a good night’s sleep. You’re not doing either of you any good working yourself into such a state.”

“I’m fine, Professor.” Ginny’s heart clenched as she realized she’d used Harry’s favorite phrase. She turned pleading eyes on the headmistress. “I... I just want to wait.”

Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together in disapproval, but her eyes held sympathy and concern. Ginny looked quickly away before McGonagall’s expression could draw out the emotions she was holding in by sheer force of will. She had to stay calm, numb, empty, or else she’d fall apart and no one would ever be able to put her back to together again.

“I’ll send an elf with tea,” McGonagall relented. “You’ll do well to drink it or I’ll send you straight to Madam Pomfrey.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Ginny sighed with relief as the headmistress finally left, then tolerated Winky’s fretting as long as she could before sending the elf away. She felt a small twinge of shame at causing the hurt look on the tiny, bug-eyed face, but she was using all of her strength to hold herself together. Graciousness was beyond her means at the moment.

At Winky’s insistence, Ginny had moved from the floor to curl up in an armchair. She alternately toyed with her ring and the lightning bolt pendant at her throat, eyes focused steadily on the fireplace, willing Hermione to come back with good news.

The events of the previous day played over and over in her head and she tried to think what other reason—what safer reason—might have kept him away. Maybe learning about Lisa’s mother had bothered him more than she’d thought. Maybe he was still angry and had decided to take a broom ride to clear his head. Maybe he planned to break up with her and had gone off to brood about it. As much as this last thought hurt, she’d take it as good news—at least it would mean he was safe.

Professor McGonagall came in and out several times through the day. Ginny could feel her worried gaze, but the headmistress didn’t interrupt her vigil. Winky came back twice with more tea that grew cold in the pot. The sun was casting long shadows on the grounds before the Floo stirred again and Hermione’s weary face appeared.

“Professor McGonagall? Ginny?”

Ginny dropped quickly to her knees before the fire. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry. It took forever to find anyone who would talk to us. We finally had to just push our way into the Minister’s office. He didn’t want to tell us anything, but I managed to convince him.”

“Yeah,” Ron’s voice chuckled over the fire, although Ginny couldn’t see his face. “She threatened to give Rita Skeeter a tip about unqualified trainees being sent into dangerous situations. The last thing Shacklebolt needs right now is a scandal, especially one involving Harry.”

“Hush, Ron. Anyway, the Minister finally did admit that Harry went along on a raid last night. He said the Auror team is still out, rounding up the criminals and processing them in at Azkaban. They should be home tomorrow.”

Ginny took the first real breath she could remember taking in nearly twenty-four hours. “So, he’s okay? Harry’s safe?”

Hermione frowned and looked over her shoulder at something Ron said. “I’m not going to lie to her,” she said to him then turned back to Ginny, who was holding her breath again. “He... he wouldn’t say anything specifically about Harry, either way. I’m not sure he really knows. He just said they should be home tomorrow.”

Ginny blinked and sat back on her heels. They still didn’t know anything. The memory of her nightmare flashed through her mind. Harry was lost and she couldn’t find him, couldn’t protect him. She wrapped her arms around her stomach in an effort to hold the calming numbness in place.

“Ginny, don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine. Ron’s going to take the day off tomorrow and wait at the Ministry for them. We’ll let you know as soon as we know something. Maybe Harry will be the one to Floo.”

Ginny nodded, unable to draw enough breath to make her voice work. If Harry were fine, he’d have been in touch by now. Nothing could make her believe he was okay until she saw him for herself.

Hermione looked back at Ron again, then frowned into the fire. “Ginny, are you all right? You look sort of—”

“I’m fine,” Ginny whispered. She cleared her throat and forced out more sound. “Just... just Floo when you hear something, yeah?” She stood and headed blindly for the spiral staircase before Hermione’s face had disappeared from the fire.

With no memory of the ride down the moving stairs, Ginny was startled to find herself standing at the corridor opening when someone spoke her name.

“Ginny? Have you heard from Miss Granger?”

She turned vacant eyes upon Professor McGonagall. “We... we still don’t know where... we don’t know anything definite.”

“Are you all right, child? You look a fright. Perhaps its time you went to visit Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’m fine.” The words, Harry’s words, were comforting in their way. Maybe if she said them enough, she’d start to believe them.

“Ginny—”

“Excuse me, Professor. I have an essay that needs writing.”

Ginny made her way to the portrait hole without remembering the walk, then stared blankly at the Fat Lady for several moments, unable to recall the password or even that she needed to give one.

“Are you all right, dearie? You look as if you’re off with the fairies,” the Fat Lady said with more patience than usual.

Ginny frowned, trying to think of a reply. Harry was missing. Everything else seemed unimportant. As she tried to figure out where she had intended to go and how to get there, another voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Ginny, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

She turned glassy eyes on Dean; he continued without a breath.

“Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, I guess I wasn’t thinking, but I had no right to— Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” The words were becoming automatic, comfortable. She scrunched up her face in confusion. “Yesterday? What happened yesterday?”

Dean’s jaw dropped. “Colin’s pictures? The display I trashed? You don’t remember?”

Her brow smoothed. “Oh, yes. The pictures. I remember.”

Dean studied her with narrowed eyes. “Are you really okay? You don’t seem—”

“I’m fine. I need to go.” She really had no idea where she needed to go, but she couldn’t stand here and discuss unimportant things any longer. Harry was missing and if she didn’t do _something_ she was going to go insane. She turned toward the stairs.

“Wait!” Dean grabbed her arm as she passed and she flinched away as if his touch burned. She couldn’t bear to be touched. If she felt anything, she’d go to pieces.

“Ginny, what’s wrong? Hey—where’s Harry? He’s not—he didn’t stay away because of what I said, did he?”

Dean’s apologetic look was her undoing. A surge of unshed tears lodged in her chest and she bent over in agony.

“I don’t know,” she gasped. “I don’t know where he is.”

And everything went black.

***

“…looks like she hasn’t eaten decent meal in a month. Look at her, Minerva, she’s nothing but skin and bones.”

Ginny kept her eyes closed as Madam Pomfrey clucked and Professor McGonagall murmured in undertones. She wasn’t ready to answer the matron’s accusations, which, now that she thought about it, were probably true. She really couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Maybe yesterday with Harry? She rolled to her side and curled into herself at the pain of the memory. The movement brought Madam Pomfrey to her bedside. Ginny feigned sleep, hoping to stave off the inevitable.

“Poor thing,” Madam Pomfrey said quietly as she drew the blankets tighter around Ginny’s now shivering form. “No one should have to bear as much as this child has over the past year. It’s a wonder she hasn’t collapsed before now, the way she’s been going. Not eating. Not sleeping. Minerva, you’ve put too much on her this year. And letting Potter come every weekend. Really! It’s just one more thing when she’s already got too much to be going on with.”

“You may be right, Poppy, but at first I believed letting Potter come was helpful. She had been through so much and his visits seemed to lift her spirits. But now…” Professor McGonagall’s voice trailed off as she and Madam Pomfrey moved away. Ginny strained to hear what else they were saying. “…built her whole world around him… lost herself. When he returns… long talk with him on the matter.”

“Don’t you mean _if_ he returns?” Their voices got a little louder as they turned to face the bed, but Ginny still had to concentrate hard to hear.

“No, I mean _when_. I’ve watched Harry Potter overcome the odds too many times to believe he won’t return this time. He’ll be back, you mark my words.”

Professor McGonagall’s confidence planted a small seed of hope that Ginny was afraid to nurture. She pushed it deep inside to keep for the future.

“What shall we do for her now?” McGonagall asked.

“She needs feeding up and a Dreamless Sleep draught so she can get some proper rest. She’s not going anywhere until I’m satisfied she’s got her strength back. Please let her teachers know it may be several days before she returns.”

“Poppy, please be gentle with her.”

Madam Pomfrey snorted indignantly. “That’s the problem. Everyone’s been too gentle. Someone needs to thump some sense into her.”

“Now, Poppy…”

“I know, I know. But she’s not leaving until I say she’s ready.”

Grateful for the “no visitors” sign on the screen surrounding her bed, Ginny was a model patient, obediently swallowing soup and toast and juice and tea under Madam Pomfrey’s watchful eye. When she wasn’t unconscious from whatever potion had been handed to her last, she counted the cracks in the ceiling to keep her mind from going spare over... other things.

But in the quiet of the night, no matter how hard she worked to push them away, Professor McGonagall’s words echoed in her mind. Had she really lost herself by loving Harry? That couldn’t be. Of course, she was happiest when she was with him, but she was still Ginny Weasley, wasn’t she? She was Head Girl and a Gryffindor Quidditch Chaser (well, until last weekend) and she had led the student revolt last year (at least until they kept her home at Easter) and she’d fought in the final battle, and, well… It didn’t matter that most of the important things she’d done were in the past and that now she was best known as Harry Potter’s girlfriend, Ron Weasley’s sister, Hermione Granger’s friend. She was still Ginny Weasley. She was still her own person, wasn’t she? Even if now, with Harry missing, she felt as if half of her soul had gone with him.

When Madam Pomfrey pronounced her ready for release after making sure she ate breakfast Tuesday morning, Ginny was apprehensive about leaving the sanctuary of the ward. She wasn’t ready to answer the questions that were sure to come.

Dean was waiting outside the hospital wing doors, and fell into step beside her as she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower.

“I got a letter from Lisa,” he said after they’d climbed two flights of stairs. “She’s doing better.”

“I’m glad,” Ginny said absently as she concentrated on counting steps—thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven…

“I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three…

“About what I said to Harry.”

Forty-three, forty— “You made me lose count. I need to go back.” Ginny turned and went back to the landing they’d just left as Dean watched in confusion. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three…

She could tell he was watching her with a worried frown, but the stairs needed counting. She wondered if anyone ever had? What other secrets did the castle hold that no one knew. Maybe she should be the one to find them out? How many steps were there? How many portraits? How many stones in the floor? In the walls?

“Ginny?”

“Shhh.”

If she kept counting, she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She wouldn’t have to think or feel. She could just count until Harry came back, and everything would be okay.

“Ginny, you’re scaring me.”

“Sorry.” Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight…

“Professor,” Dean said, sounding relieved. “Something’s wrong. She’s—”

Ginny glanced up to find Professor McGonagall coming down the flight above and ignored both of them as she continued up the stairs. Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three…

“Miss Weasley. Miss Granger has Flooed.”

Ginny stopped in her tracks, her heart plunging as she turned wide eyes on McGonagall three steps above her.

“Your presence is required at the Burrow. I believe a family meeting has been called.”

The words were barely out before Ginny was racing up the stairs. When she stumbled into the kitchen at the Burrow, Ron and Hermione were waiting for her.

“Oh, good. Come on,” Hermione said. “They wanted to do this without you, but we wouldn’t let them.”

“Did they find him?” Ginny gasped, then drew up short as she stepped into the sitting room. Percy stood like a statue next to the sideboard. Fleur was using the armchair as a throne with Bill perched on the arm beside her. George sat on one end of the sofa, Mum on the other with Dad standing behind. The whole family was there, save Charlie. But it was the two visitors before the fireplace who drained the blood from Ginny’s face and constricted her lungs.

A visit from the Head Auror and the Minister of Magic could only mean very bad news.

Like stone encompassing a tomb, the wonderful, empty numbness she’d desperately clung to for two days finally settled permanently into place. Stoically, she walked across the room and sat stiffly between George and her mother. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, but she held her head high and waited.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I wish we were gathered under different circumstances. You are probably the only real family Harry has ever known, so it seemed fitting that you be the ones to be notified.” He paused and cast a sympathetic look over the group, ending with a small frown of concern as he looked at Ginny. She met his gaze steadily. The Minister continued with a grave tone. “At his own insistence, Harry participated early Sunday morning in a raid to capture a group of escaped Death Eaters led by Antonin Dolohov.”

“You let Harry go on a raid?” Molly wailed, standing and shaking her fist at the Minister. “He’s just a boy! He’s not through with his training. What were you thinking?”

Arthur put a hand on her shoulder. “Let them finish, Molly. Let’s hear what they have to say.”

“Harry wanted to be there,” Shacklebolt continued. “He played a critical role in the mission. And even though Dolohov got away, the raid was pronounced successful. Thanks to Harry, we arrested more than fifty escaped Death Eaters and other criminals with no losses in the Auror corps... or so we thought.”

Molly gave a moan of despair and the rest of the family began to grumble angrily as they realized what the Minister was saying. Ginny sat quietly, staring at the floor and fingering her invisible ring.

“But we believe Harry may still be alive,” Shacklebolt continued quickly. “The reason we didn’t immediately know he was missing was because someone in Polyjuice disguise came back with our unit. It wasn’t until Ron and Hermione spoke with that person that we realized it wasn’t Harry.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t know,” Ron blurted, his ears nearly purple with rage. “I knew the minute I saw him, even before he walked right past me and waved without stopping to speak. Harry wouldn’t do that. And he would’ve Flooed Ginny the minute he got back, too. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t think of Polyjuice right off, so I got Hermione to see what she could make of it.”

“We waited until we could follow him into the lift, so he couldn’t avoid us,” Hermione said. “We wanted to be sure it wasn’t Harry, but we didn’t want to let him know we suspected, so I asked him if he’d got anything for Ginny’s birthday yet. He told us he was going to get something and give it to her the next time he saw her. Apparently, whoever he is didn’t do his homework. He didn’t know that Ginny’s birthday is in August not November and he didn’t know that Harry’s been going to Hogwarts every weekend.”

“Well why haven’t you arrested this imposter?” Molly cried. “He might know where Harry is. Why aren’t you interrogating him?”

“That’s exactly why we haven’t taken him,” Robards said. “They’re probably keeping Potter alive so they can maintain the Polyjuice—”

“Like Crouch did with Moody,” George said.

“Exactly,” Shacklebolt said. “If we tip them off that we know, they would likely go ahead and kill him. We can’t make a move until we can find out where they’re holding him.”

“I still want to know why it took you so long—why _we_ had to be the ones to figure it out,” Ron snarled. “Don’t you blokes pay attention to each other? Didn’t any of you talk to this fake?”

“There was a lot of confusion at the scene,” Robards argued, although his face was a bright shade of crimson. “He managed to avoid having much conversation with anyone. We would’ve worked it out soon enough.”

“Yeah, and meanwhile, Harry is who knows where going through who knows what. If you’d paid a bit more attention, you might have picked up the trail and found him by now,” Ron said, stepping forward, fists clenched. Hermione put a calming hand on his arm. He punched his palm and turned to face the wall as he tried to rein in his anger. Ginny could tell that Bill and George were also working to maintain control. She worried her ring and tried to remember how to breathe.

“We had no reason to believe—” Robards stopped and ran a hand over his bald head. “We’re doing everything we can. I’ve got our best team on it. The problem is that we’ve got to keep this quiet. We can’t let them know that we know.”

“You must understand that this information cannot leave this room,” Shacklebolt said. “Harry’s life may depend on it.” He scanned the group, waiting for everyone’s nod of agreement. His eyes came to rest on Ginny. “Miss Weasley—Ginny—given your relationship with Harry, you may have the most difficulty keeping this secret—”

Ginny snapped her eyes to his. “I can do it. It won’t be a problem.”

Shacklebolt studied her carefully for a moment, then simply nodded his approval before looking at Bill. “Can you discreetly have Harry’s Gringott’s vault frozen? We don’t need this imposter funneling his fortune to Dolohov.”

Bill nodded grimly. “Yeah. I think I can do that. We can tie it to the damages last spring.”

“Yes, that should work,” Shacklebolt said. “Well, then, we’ll be off. We’ll keep you informed of any new discoveries.”

When they were gone, everyone sat in shocked silence for a while until her mother herded them all into the kitchen. As usual, food was her solution to the problem. Mechanically, Ginny went through the motions of helping to prepare lunch. Now that Harry was officially missing, she couldn’t be still. Her mind and heart seemed to have shut down, but the rest of her body felt an uncontrollable need to move. Keeping her wand in her pocket, she put cups on the table and turned to get spoons, only to find herself enveloped in her mother’s arms. Sheer determination made her return the embrace instead of jerking away.

“Oh, my poor baby,” Mum sobbed. “He’s like one of my own. But knowing how you must feel makes it even worse.”

“I’m fine, Mum, and Harry will be fine,” Ginny murmured, gently disengaging herself and hoping she would be forgiven for the lies. “Why don’t you sit down and let me get lunch together?”

Ginny sent a silent plea to her father, who maneuvered her mother into a chair. Hermione stood to help and Ginny waved her away. “I’m fine. I need to stay busy.”

Putting the kettle on to boil and slicing ham and roast for sandwiches, Ginny allowed her brothers’s angry postulating to wash over her unnoticed. They berated the Ministry and the Auror Division and considered and discarded various plans for helping as she set bread and meat and fruit and biscuits before them, then busied herself with washing the breakfast dishes without magic. Standing with her back to them was easier than seeing the pity in their eyes. Even Fleur, with whom she hadn’t spoken since their disastrous training session, seemed genuinely sympathetic. Ginny knew they all meant well, but she couldn’t bear to see them looking at her like that.

George brought his empty plate to the sink and stood silently next to her, gazing out the window.

“All right?” he finally asked.

“I’m fine.” She felt certain he knew she was lying.

He studied her solemnly for a moment. “I’m here, if you need me.”

“I know,” she said, giving him a semblance of a smile before refocusing on her task.

Bill had left to take care of securing Harry’s vault, but the rest of the family seemed intent on keeping vigil around the kitchen table, as if Harry might come strolling in at any minute. Ginny compulsively washed and dried and tidied until she ran out of things do to and could stand the circular conversations no longer. She fled to the bench at the back of the garden and wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, as much to hold herself together as to ward off the November chill; her cloak was still at Hogwarts.

She wasn’t much surprised when Hermione slipped onto the bench next to her. They sat quietly for several moments, staring off toward the orchard, before Hermione took Ginny’s left hand in hers and fingered the invisible ring. Ginny closed her eyes and bit down on her lip.

“He’s going to be okay,” Hermione said. “We have to believe that until they tell us otherwise.”

Ginny nodded and reclaimed her hand as she stood. “I have to go. Back to school. I just—I just can’t stay here. This feels too much like last year at Christmas and after Easter. You’ll let me know when... when they find him?”

Hermione nodded. “He’ll be fine.”

“Yes. He’ll be fine,” Ginny agreed tonelessly, then walked back into the house to use the Floo.

***

Last time, she had worried about Ron and Hermione as much as Harry, but she’d also been comforted to know that the three of them were together, looking out for each other.

This time, Harry was out there alone. 

Last time, they’d all said no news was good news, that Harry must still be alive if they hadn’t heard that he was dead.

This time, she clung to the hope that the same was true.

Last time, she’d had Death Eaters to fight, a student resistance to lead, swords to steal.

This time, the only demons left to battle were inside her own head.

Sleep was out of the question. When she lay down, the demons took over. She considered asking Madam Pomfrey for a sleeping draught, but she might miss the call when news of Harry came.

So, Ginny found herself frantically searching for things to occupy her mind and exhaust her body. She threw herself into revising for her classes and her NEWTs: her essays were three times longer than anyone else’s (even if they sometimes made no sense) and, in two days, her notes for the year were organized well enough to put Hermione to shame. She helped Professor Sprout weed the daisies and spread dragon dung compost on the Venomous Tentacula. She tended the offerings at the memorial wall and reorganized her trunk. And, with the first Hogsmeade weekend just two days away, she devised elaborate plans for supervising the trip that she presented at the Thursday evening Prefects’ meeting—they were as popular as Hagrid’s Blast-ended Skrewts.

“What do you mean we have to lead guided tours to the Shrieking Shack?” snarled Malcolm Baddock, a Slytherin who had been openly disdainful of the fact that both Heads were from Gryffindor and never missed an opportunity to oppose any idea.

“The third-years are going to want to see it and we don’t need people wandering off by themselves,” Ginny explained, not backing down from the challenge.

“If they’re old enough to go to Hogsmeade, they’re old enough to go see the Shack for themselves. We’re not a bloody bunch of nannies,” Baddock said to the murmured agreement of the group at large.

“And why do we have to patrol the streets?” Orla Quirke, a Ravenclaw, whinged. “Hogsmeade weekend is about getting away and relaxing. How’re we supposed to do that if we’re on duty the whole time?”

“This is about safety,” Ginny said, growing irritated at their complaints. “It’s our duty to be sure everyone is safe.”

“The war’s over, Weasley,” said Hufflepuff Kevin Whitby, but at least he was trying for a conciliatory tone. “Who are we trying to protect everyone from?”

“Not all of the Death Eaters were captured—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Weasley. Give it a rest,” Baddock said. “Besides, what are you going to be doing while we’re on patrol? Shagging Potter?”

A Bludger to the chest couldn’t have pushed the air from her lungs faster or created more pain where her heart should be. She should’ve been prepared, should’ve had an answer ready, but the question took her totally by surprise and her sluggish mind refused to produce a cutting retort.

“No...” she finally breathed. “No, I won’t.”

“What’s the matter? He’s not coming?” Baddock had a gleam in his eye. He knew he’d made a direct hit, even if he didn’t know how or why.

Ginny drew in a deep breath and struggled to keep her face blank and her voice steady. She clutched desperately at the first excuse that came to mind. “No. He... he’s got to work.”

“Work? He’s a bleedin’ trainee. Why would he be working on Saturday? You’ve had another row, haven’t you? I must’ve missed that edition of the _Prophet_.” He grinned as his appreciative audience chuckled (and not just Slytherins, she noticed).

“Harry has a lot of Ministry duties besides his Auror training, you wanker.” Neville silenced the group with a growl as he stood and leaned on the table to glare at Baddock. “If you ever _really_ read the _Prophet_ , you’d know that. Now, let’s get this meeting back on track.”

In the end, Neville negotiated a compromise and the Prefects grudgingly agreed to take turns with a less rigid patrol schedule to help keep everyone safe and out of trouble. They decided against the Shrieking Shack tours.

When the room had cleared, Ginny sank into her chair and dropped her head into her hands. Neville gathered his papers, then quietly sat down next to her and waited.

“Thank you,” she finally said as she looked up and pushed her hair from her face. “I know I overdid it. Thanks for taking over.”

“No worries,” he said with a shrug. “You had some good points. But they did, too. I think it all worked out.”

Ginny nodded and bit her lip. “I’m sorry you have to keep picking up the slack for me. I probably wasn’t the best choice for Head Girl this year.”

“You’re fine,” Neville said and Ginny gave a sad smile at his choice of words. “I don’t mind. You’ve had a lot on you this year.”

“Yes, but it’s not fair that you should have to do so much of the work.” She crossed her arms on the table and dropped her head onto them. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Neville. I just don’t feel like I can do anything right anymore. I’ve mucked up being Head Girl, I quit Quidditch, my grades are rubbish…” 

Neville let the silence hold for a moment before speaking. “What’s going on with Harry, Ginny? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

She lifted her head and stared at him. She couldn’t lie to Neville. He’d been her rock last year. He’d fought just as hard as she had for Harry’s cause and he deserved to know the truth. She could trust him with this secret as she’d trusted him with so many others.

“He’s missing.” The flat words rang hollow in the empty room and in her empty soul. “He went on a raid with the Aurors last weekend and someone Polyjuiced as him came back in his place. They think... they think he may still be alive, but…”

Neville frowned, but didn’t interrupt. She looked off into the distance, her thoughts far away from Hogwarts. “I... I don’t know what I’ll do if... if...” She turned her gaze back to Neville, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know who I am without him. I can’t think what to do. What if he doesn’t come back? What will I do if he doesn’t come back?”

It was the first time she’d allowed herself to face the possibility. She should cry or scream or throw something, but all she could feel was this icy numbness. Tears wouldn’t come.

“You’re strong, Ginny. You’ve got friends and family who’ll help you. You’ll get through this.”

Neville’s eyes held seventeen years of pain and wishing for things that couldn’t be. He knew the futility of false hope and she was grateful he didn’t offer it. Saying Harry would be okay didn’t make it so. She had to prepare herself for the prospect of life without him. But she was beginning to wonder if she would ever really be fine again.

***

Ginny wasn’t sure why she had bothered to come to breakfast. She couldn’t eat and any real news wouldn’t come by owl (Hermione had Flooed every evening with nothing new to report). But she was awake before dawn and she couldn’t lie still, so she found herself sitting at the table in the Great Hall, idly crumbling a piece of toast into dust until it was time to go to class. She occasionally heard her name and Harry’s amid the chatter around her, but she tuned out the sound and let her mind drift. She was miles away when Dean slipped onto the bench beside her.

“Good morning,” he said tentatively. “Are you speaking to me yet?”

Ginny kept her eyes steadfastly on her plate as she swept the crumbs into a pile with her finger. She’d successfully avoided Dean since Tuesday and wished now that she’d left for class earlier. Still hurt over his drunken revelations to Harry about Lisa’s mother, Ginny didn’t trust him with this secret and she didn’t want to have to come up with a bogus explanation for her breakdown. And she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else trying to be sympathetic or understanding when they couldn’t possibly understand what she was going through.

She stood and picked up her book bag. “I haven’t been _not_ speaking to you. I’ve just been busy.”

He grabbed an apple and hurried to catch up as she headed for the door. Falling into step beside her, he looked around to be sure no one was listening and lowered his voice to an undertone. “Ginny, what’s wrong? Has something happened with Harry? I saw the—”

“Harry’s fine,” she cut him off, unable to keep the irritation from her tone as she started up the stairs. How many times was she going to have to tell this lie to everyone including herself?

“You’re still angry with me. Please tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

“I’m not angry with you.” It wasn’t much of a lie. She had closed off her emotions—she couldn’t be angry with anyone. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s just...” She left the sentence unfinished as she turned onto the landing.

Grabbing her arm, Dean turned her to face him. “It’s just what? Please. You used to talk to me. Let me help. Let me be your friend again.”

Wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, she quickly looked away from his frown of concern. Merlin she was tired, so bloody, bloody tired. Tired of holding herself together and far too tired fight with Dean.

The memory of his face ravaged with pain over Lisa flashed through her mind. He’d been there every time she’d needed him over the past year, but when he’d needed her, she’d abandoned him—for Harry. Harry, who had broken his promise and left her to go chasing Dark Wizards… Harry, who seemed always to be leaving her to throw himself into danger… Harry, who might not…

No! She couldn’t think that. Not yet. She cut off the thought and dragged haunted eyes back to Dean.

Dean, who’d never been anything but kind and supportive, even when he knew she was unable to return his affections or even be a good friend. How could she be angry with him for venting his sorrow and frustration? And, now he was back, offering her support when she should be the one comforting him.

The stairway was growing crowded, but he waited patiently. She curled the corners of her mouth in a half-hearted attempt to smile. “Let’s find some place to talk.”

They made their way by unspoken agreement to the sixth floor classroom where Colin’s pictures were to have been on display. Once inside, Ginny looked around in amazement.

“You’ve put it right.”

Ducking his head and jamming his hands into his pockets, Dean shrugged. “It was the least I could do. Dennis was bloody furious.”

“I don’t doubt,” Ginny said as she wandered along the completed display panels. She stopped and turned abruptly back to Dean when a picture of Harry caught her eye. “So how are you? Have you heard from Lisa again?”

He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and gave her a crooked smile. “Yeah. She’s doing better. She said to tell you she’s really sorry and she hopes you’ll let her try to make it up to you.”

Ginny gave a one-shouldered shrug. “No worries. Just tell her to get better.”

Dean looked nervously at the floor then back at Ginny. “I don’t think she’s forgiven Harry, yet. But I think she’s trying.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around her middle and turned to look out the window. “That’s good.”

“Are you—can you—I mean, have _you_ forgiven _me_?” Dean stammered.

“I’m not angry with you any more,” she said tightly without turning to look at him. They were getting too close to the topic she most didn’t want to discuss.

“What about Harry? Is he still angry with me?”

Ginny swallowed thickly and sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “He wasn’t angry with you. He was angry with me for trying to protect him. He blames himself as much as Lisa does.”

Dean waited several beats before asking quietly, “So, is he still angry with you? Is that what’s wrong, why you don’t know where he is? Is that why he was with that Darling bird again, in the newspaper?”

“Darling bird?”

“You know. That Auror he dated last summer.” Understanding dawned in Dean’s eyes and his voice turned grim. “You didn’t see the paper this morning, did you?”

“No.” Ginny closed her eyes. Her heart lurched for a moment until she realized it had to be the imposter.

“There was a picture this morning of the two of them together. I’m sorry. I didn’t...”

This would be a good cover story to explain her distraction and sadness. She wouldn’t even have to embellish it, just let Dean think what he wanted—and she had no doubt Dean would jump at the chance to make the worst of it. But Harry didn’t need anymore blame on his shoulders, even if he was a bloody prat for breaking his promise and putting himself in danger. She didn’t want to widen the breach between her fiancé and her best friend.

“No,” she whispered. “He’s not angry with me. We’re okay.”

“So where is he? Why didn’t he come on Sunday?”

Ginny had to struggle to make her voice work. “He’s... he had to work. A... a training mission. He told me about it, but he thought he’d be back. It took longer than he expected.”

“So why was he with her? In the paper?”

She met his eyes steadily, the lies beginning to come more easily. “You know how the press is. It’s a different one every other day. I’m getting used to it, you know?”

He didn’t believe her. “So, is he coming to take you to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

“I don’t know.” She managed to keep her face straight. “He might have to work again.”

Dean pressed his lips together as if to keep from saying what was on his mind. After a long moment he got a look of determination in his eyes. “So, would you go with me, then? As friends? If he doesn’t come?”

If he doesn’t come. If he doesn’t come for Hogsmeade weekend? If he doesn’t come at all? Ginny squeezed her arms tighter around herself. Last year, Harry had been gone with no word for months. So far this time, it had been only a week and with each passing hour her fear grew, becoming harder to keep in check. How was she going to bear it? How could she keep from going spare during the waiting? She looked back into Dean’s hopeful eyes and made her decision.

“Yes, that would be nice.”


	15. Friends, Foes, and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a little help from his... friend?

Harry could hear low voices in the distance, but he couldn’t make out the words. A searing pain shot through his side as he shifted a bit, but he managed to swallow the moan trying to escape his parched throat. Instinctively, he realized that his best protection was to appear unconscious, although he couldn’t remember at the moment exactly why that was so important. Probably something to do with the pain. He cracked his eyelids to check his surroundings, but saw only blurred colors. His glasses were gone. And one eye didn’t seem to want to open at all. Giving up on seeing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the voices—they’d got a bit louder.

“Is he still alive?” That arrogant tone could belong only to Malfoy.

The other voice laughed. It sounded vaguely familiar. “Barely. And probably not for long.”

“Well, just be careful that you’re not the one who kills him,” Malfoy said. “We’ve got that little matter of a life debt to consider. Don’t forget what happened to Wormtail.”

“My debt’s to Weasel and the Mudblood,” the other voice growled, clearly irritated by the fact.

“You were unconscious, Goyle. You think they’d have got you out if Potter hadn’t told them to? Your debt’s to all three of them.”

Harry shifted his thoughts, trying to remember how he’d come to be badly injured and lying face down on cold stone listening to Malfoy and Goyle discuss life debts. It was something to do with Malfoy…

In a rush, the memories came back, at least up to the point that everything went dark. The ambush. He must’ve been hit with a Stunner—or likely something worse—and, apparently, taken prisoner. Ah, yes. Now he remembered. They’d _Ennervated_ him just before beating him senseless with Quidditch bats and using the Cruciatus curse until he’d lost consciousness again. He had his doubts that they’d stopped even then.

He began to assess his injuries, moving carefully so they wouldn’t notice that he was awake: broken ribs for sure (Dudley had made sure he knew what those felt like); his left foot wouldn’t move and the effort nearly made him pass out from the pain—no doubt his leg or ankle was broken; everything else hurt like hell, but seemed to be functional. His robes and boots were gone, which accounted for the chill that had seeped into his bones. He supposed he should be grateful they’d left him his trousers and t-shirt. From the stories he’d heard in his training classes, they could’ve done much worse than beaten him half to death.

He was obviously not going to get out of here under his own steam. Harry knew from his experience with Wormtail that calling in a life debt could protect him from bodily harm and even kill the indebted wizard. But releasing Wormtail’s death grip so they could escape was one thing—forcing Goyle to actively get him out of this place was something entirely different. And now wasn’t the best time to test the theory. A dead guard, when Harry couldn’t get out on his own, would only make matters worse.

With the Ministry’s Probation Trace on him, Malfoy wasn’t an option, either. Harry doubted, life debt or not, he would be able to coerce Malfoy into using magic that would draw attention to himself from both sides of the battle. And, besides, Malfoy was on the wrong side anyway. The ambush had been a set-up and, when the opportunity presented itself, Harry was going to make Malfoy pay for his deceit. But for now, just getting out of this place, wherever it was, had to be the priority.

Harry wondered how long he’d been here. He was sure he’d missed his usual Sunday morning arrival time at Hogwarts—Ginny was probably frantic by now. If he did make it out of here alive, she was going to kill him for not keeping his promise to warn her about the danger he was getting into. He let his mind wander to the day before. The memories of her scent and the way her body fit with his did wonders to take his mind off the throbbing in his leg and the piercing pains in his head and chest. He wondered if he’d ever get to hold her again.

The sound of footsteps stopping next to his head brought him back to the present. He cracked his working eyelid just in time to see the blurry toe of a black shoe nudge him in the shoulder. Unable to stop himself, Harry cried out as the pain shot through him like a sword.

“Still alive, are you?” Malfoy sneered.

Harry moaned and shivered against the icy stone beneath him.

“When was the last time he had water?”

“Dunno,” Goyle replied. “Yesterday. Day before, maybe.”

Three days. The thought drummed a rhythm in Harry’s brain. Ginny was definitely going to kill him.

“Get him some water, you oaf. Do you want him to die of dehydration? What are they going to do for the Polyjuice if you let him die?”

“What do I look like? A bloody house-elf?”

The words stirred something in the back of Harry’s mind, but he couldn’t grasp it before it flitted away.

“Just get some water,” Malfoy said tersely, then, as the sound of Goyle’s footsteps and grumbling retreated, muttered, “Idiot. He could’ve just conjured it.”

Harry yelped and opened his eye a crack when he was rolled onto his side. Malfoy was kneeling next to him and appeared to be watching the door as he pushed a wad of fabric under the front of Harry’s torn and dirty shirt.

“Wait until they change the guard to use this,” Malfoy whispered. “About an hour. Can you stay awake that long?”

Harry nodded his head slightly as he drew careful breaths, waiting for the pain to subside and trying to make sense of what Malfoy was saying. From the feel of it, the cloth had to be his Invisibility Cloak. But Malfoy had set them up, hadn’t he? Why was he helping now? Was this another trap? Nothing made sense.

“Why should I trust you?” Harry rasped.

“Because you don’t have any other choice,” Malfoy said without rancor, checking the door again. “Once they start searching for you, I’ll come back. Can you walk?”

“No. Leg’s broken.”

“Oh, great. You do go out of your way to make my life difficult, don’t you, Potter?” In that moment, Malfoy reminded Harry vividly of Snape.

“’S’what I live for,” Harry croaked.

“Yeah, just see that you do or we’re both dead men.”

Leave it to Malfoy to boil it all down to self-preservation, but his tone of voice made Harry’s good eye pop open. He couldn’t make out the expression on Malfoy’s face, but something was…off. The fog in Harry’s brain was thick; he didn’t have it in him to puzzle it all out. Besides, no matter what his motivation, Malfoy had just returned Harry’s most important survival tool—now was not the time to be asking too many questions.

“I’ll see if I can nick a wand, but don’t hold your breath,” Malfoy continued in hushed tones. “We’re probably going to have to do this without magic. There’s—” He broke off abruptly and stood as footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Goyle lumbered in and dumped a dipper of water on Harry’s head. “There. I gave ’im water. Satisfied?”

Harry licked his lips to catch as many drops as possible.

“I suppose it’ll have to do,” Malfoy said, the arrogant tone returning. “But _you’re_ answering to Dolohov if he dies before they’re ready.”

Goyle snorted and turned to leave. “You comin’? I need to finish my nap.”

After the door closed with a solid thud, Harry found it much harder to stay awake than he’d thought. Keeping his mind on Ginny and his plans for escape helped to distract him from the throbbing in his head and leg and the shards jabbing into his side, but then he’d start to drift off and have to move to jolt himself awake again. It seemed an eternity before the new guard came to administer a kick in the side that doubled Harry over with a sharp cry. Satisfied that his prisoner was still alive, the guard slammed the door shut behind him.

Shivering violently on the cold floor, Harry gritted his teeth against the pain, willing it to subside so he could begin to work through his plan. First, he had to move to another part of the room—preferably near the door—and he’d have to do it without leaving a trail.

Once the even snores began filtering in from the hallway, Harry held out his hand to cast a silencing charm to cover his movements. He was surprised at the effort it took. Even wandlessly, he could usually cast the spell without thinking, but in his weakened condition, it took all of his concentration and left him panting for breath. He’d never take his magic for granted again.

He gave himself only a few minutes to rest before beginning the grueling ordeal ahead. Though the room was small, Harry thought he might as well be crawling from one end of the Great Hall to the other and back as he choked on his groans of agony and fought the excruciating pain that shot through him each time he heaved his weight across the rough stones. 

By the time he reached the opposite wall, waves of nausea and dizziness had him fighting for control. The last thing he needed was to retch, although he had nothing in his stomach to throw up. He slumped heavily to the floor and gasped for air to clear his head and calm his stomach so he could finish what he had to do. Desperate to hide before he passed out, Harry forced his lifeless arms to pull the Invisibility Cloak from under his shirt and make sure every part of him was covered. In a final burst of effort, he focused his concentration and waved his hand to erase the tracks he’d left in the thick dust on the stone floor, hoping in his near-blindness that he’d got them all. With a heavy sigh of relief, he finally gave in to the darkness.

***

When the door crashed open, Harry’s yelp of surprise and pain was covered by a roar of rage.

“WHERE IS HE?”

Forcing himself from his haze of sleep, Harry pressed closer to the wall and checked to be sure the cloak was still tucked tightly around him.

“He was here! He was here when I started my shift! He was right there!”

Harry opened his eye and watched the blurry images of the two wizards stomping about the seemingly empty room. At least their agitated footsteps would erase any lingering traces of his trail through the dust.

“Well, find him!” the first wizard said in a panicked voice. “Dolohov’s on his way—”

“Find who?” a familiar voice said, and Harry saw the wizards shrink against the wall where he had originally lain. Two cloaked forms walked through the door. Even without his glasses, Harry could tell it was Dolohov with Malfoy on his heels.

“They’ve apparently misplaced Potter,” a fourth voice sneered. Harry was amazed at Malfoy’s perfect transformation from questionable spy back into dark wizard. He must have learned a lot from observing Snape last year.

“HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?” The two wizards cowered away from Dolohov’s fury.

“He was here! He couldn’t have got out. I was by the door the whole time and there’s no other way,” one of them whimpered.

“Well, he seems to have managed it somehow,” Malfoy said with just the right touch of lazy sarcasm. “In his condition, he couldn’t have done it without help. Perhaps one of you…?” Malfoy allowed his voice to trail off without finishing the accusation. Harry had to admit that the git was very good at acting his part— _if_ that’s what he was doing. Harry wondered how he was ever going to be able to tell which part was real and which was an act.

The wizards protested in chorus, pointing at each other. “No! It wasn’t me!” “It had to be him!”

“Don’t just stand there! FIND HIM!” Dolohov bellowed. “I’ll deal with the two of you later.”

“Start with the dungeons,” Malfoy said imperiously. “He can’t have made it outside yet. And he wouldn’t last ten minutes in that blizzard, if he did.”

Malfoy stood aside to allow the two wizards to scurry from the room, then hung back after Dolohov swept out.

“Potter?” Malfoy’s whisper was barely audible.

“Here,” Harry breathed and stuck his hand from under the cloak.

Malfoy dropped to one knee and pressed a phial into Harry’s hand. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” Harry whispered as he pulled it beneath the cloak and tried to focus on the muddy-looking liquid.

“A mixture of a strong pain potion and Invigoration Draught.”

“Should potions be mixed like that? Don’t they have some sort of reaction?”

“Poisoning you would get me nowhere at this point,” Malfoy drawled. “Just remember which of us had the better marks—”

“Up until sixth year,” Harry interrupted.

“Only because that oaf Slug—” Malfoy stopped and cocked his head as he listened to the growing uproar beyond the room. “Just drink it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Harry squinted at the phial. Malfoy had risked a great deal to get to this point, and any other options were extremely limited. With a small shrug that made him wince in pain, Harry pulled the cork and swallowed the contents, which were surprisingly tasty since both pain potion and Invigoration Draught usually left a bitter film in his mouth. A flood of warmth washed through his body, clearing his head and easing the throbbing in his leg and chest. Maybe the slimy git actually did know what he was doing... sometimes.

Harry pushed himself to a sitting position, careful to keep the cloak tight about him as he waited for the wave of dizziness to pass. He searched his mind for the Muggle first-aid techniques he’d learned at Auror camp last summer—without his wand he wouldn’t be able to focus his magic well enough to mend his leg. A splint. He needed something to keep the bone stable. The swelling in his eye had gone down some and he could finally open both of them, although he still couldn’t make out much more than fuzzy shapes without his glasses. The room was empty, but he could see a dark silhouette beyond the open door that might work.

“ _Accio_ chair,” Harry whispered, then had to duck to avoid the flying object coming at him faster than he’d anticipated. Apparently the potion had helped his magical concentration in addition to easing his pain. The move proved to work out well, too, as the rickety wood splintered against the stone wall.

Moving gingerly, Harry collected two of the broken chair legs and tore a couple of strips off of his already ragged t-shirt to secure them down either side of his leg. It wasn’t a great solution, but it was the best he had at the moment.

Exhausted, Harry turned sideways to stretch his leg against the wall, so no one would trip over it if they came back in, and rested his head against the cool stone. He knew he needed to save his strength for whatever was coming, but his mind was going fuzzy again, so Malfoy was going to have to come up with the rest of the plan.

By the time Malfoy came back, Harry had dozed off.

“Potter! Let’s go.”

Harry jerked awake and pulled the cloak from his head. “How’re we going to do this if I can’t walk and you can’t do magic?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and held out his hand.

Together, with a pause for dizziness, they got Harry up on his good leg. Once the cloak was covering them (although it didn’t hide their feet completely), they began the excruciatingly slow trip through the dungeon maze. Harry could tell the potion was helping to dull the pain, but it didn’t get rid of it completely and didn’t help at all whenever he accidentally put weight on his bad leg. Malfoy’s arm around his back also put pressure on his broken ribs, but Harry wasn’t about to complain and determinedly swallowed every groan. Even in his nearly-dehydrated state, he was sweating and trembling from the effort after only a few minutes. They talked little, all concentration going into maneuvering the dim passage and listening for approaching search parties.

“This isn’t going to work,” Malfoy whispered after they’d gone only a short distance. “It’s taking too long and it’s too loud.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Harry said, but the terse tone he was trying for was lost in the pain caused by breathing heavily against the ache in his chest.

“You’re going to have to get on my back.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You’re mental!”

“Shhhh!”

Harry lowered his voice. “You can’t carry me. I’ll bet you’ve never lifted anything heavier than Hagrid’s monster book in your life and you probably had a charm on it to make it lighter. We’ll both end up unable to walk.”

Even though Harry couldn’t really make out Malfoy’s expression, he had enough years of experience to be able to imagine the haughty look on his face from the tone of his voice. “I’ll have you know, Potter, that I’ve been without magic for a number of months now. I’ve had some time to build up my strength. Besides, we need to get deeper into the dungeons before someone comes looking for me. But if you’ve got a better idea—”

“No,” Harry said, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice. “No. We can try it.”

Malfoy huffed in irritation, but turned his back and hoisted Harry onto it. He staggered only a bit as Harry adjusted the cloak over them. With Malfoy leaning over to balance Harry’s weight, the cloak now covered them completely. Malfoy was quickly panting from the effort, but even with frequent stops for rest, they did make faster progress through the warren of damp stone passages. Harry kept his eyes closed and concentrated on holding on, trying hard not to dwell on the surreal experience of his arms being wrapped tightly around the neck of his sworn enemy without using them to throttle him. The whole thing seemed like a very bizarre dream. He’d have to sort it all out when this was over.

When they came within view of the second intersection of two passages, Malfoy stopped and pressed close to the wall. Harry gave an involuntary squawk as his broken leg jammed into the stone.

“Shhh,” Malfoy said.

The sound of voices was growing louder. Harry could feel Malfoy’s heart beating rapidly in tandem with his own as they carefully eased forward. Two pairs of Death Eaters met at the juncture, one set from the left and one from the right. From the sound of it, more were coming from the passage straight ahead.

“Which way are we going?” Harry whispered as he fumbled through the inner pocket of the Invisibility Cloak.

“Left,” Malfoy breathed.

“Can you get a bit closer?” Harry asked.

Malfoy huffed, but moved cautiously ahead.

“Find anything yet, Dirkwood?”

“Nothin’ down that way. What about you?”

“Nothin’. Not a sign. It’s like he just disappeared.”

“Wilkes has his wand, so he can’t Disapparate—”

“Couldn’t anyway. Not from here,” a third wizard said.

“So where could he have got to?”

“Stay close to the wall and run like hell when I tell you,” Harry breathed into Malfoy’s ear. He waved his hand to douse the torch down the corridor behind them, then flicked a Decoy Detonator into the darkened hallway. The black-bulbed creature scuttled away, its scratchy footsteps echoing hollowly off the walls.

“What the—?” Malfoy said, a slight hint of panic in his voice.

“Shh!” Harry hushed quietly.

“Did you see that?” The Death Eaters were instantly attentive.

“What was that noise?” one of the hooded figures asked.

“Probably a rat,” another one answered.

After a few more seconds, the explosion rang through the dungeon and the group took off toward the sound.

“Go!” Harry whispered when they’d passed by and Malfoy took off with more speed than Harry would’ve thought possible. Harry couldn’t help grunting in pain as they bounced along until Malfoy turned another corner and leaned heavily against the wall.

“I need—to rest,” he panted.

Harry slipped off of his back and winced as his bad leg hit the floor unexpectedly. He leaned back against the wall and pulled the cloak off of Malfoy, but kept it over himself.

“I never would’ve believed it, Malfoy. You did it.”

“Thanks, Potter.” The imperious tone was back, even through his heavy breathing. “Your confidence is overwhelming.”

Harry grew serious. “I owe you, Malfoy.”

“Yes, you do.”

Harry grinned, glad that Malfoy couldn’t see him. “Well, it’s nice to know some things never change.”

Malfoy didn’t answer, just worked on returning his breathing to normal.

“So, where are we?” Harry finally asked.

“MacBoon castle. Isle of Drear.”

“Isle of Drear? Near Azkaban? That’s unplottable, isn’t it?” Harry whispered.

Malfoy snorted. “What better place for a hideout?”

“But aren’t there Quintapeds? Don’t they eat humans?”

“Yeah. We’ll have to watch out for those. After we get past all of the Death Eaters trying to kill us and before we try to cross the channel to the mainland in a snowstorm.” He took a couple more heavy breaths before turning his back and bending down. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Harry said as he pushed with his good leg to help Malfoy lift him. “Where are we headed now?”

“Caretaker’s shack. They should’ve already searched it by now. You should be able to stay there until daylight. I’ll have to come back here to help with the search. Steer them away from it.”

Malfoy’s breathing was becoming labored again, so Harry didn’t ask any more questions. He had got out of the habit of doing things without magic and had forgot how difficult it could be. Malfoy was managing much better, and with fewer complaints, than he would’ve expected, especially for someone who’d never had to do without it.

When they finally reached a door at the end of an especially long, dark hall, Malfoy slid Harry to the floor and pulled on the latch. It didn’t budge.

“Oh, bollocks! Don’t tell me it’s locked!”

Harry pulled the cloak back from his head and held his hand out, frowning in concentration. “Try it again.”

The door opened easily to let in a howling, icy wind.

Malfoy slammed the door and wheeled on him, livid with rage. “How did you do that? You can do wandless magic? Why did you have me carry you all that way if—”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry hissed to stop the furious diatribe. “I can’t do much more than that on a good day and it’s even harder since I’m so weak. I have to concentrate more.”

“Well, why don’t you concentrate a bit and see if you can put a warming charm on that cloak?” The sneer in his voice was thick. “It’s freezing out there and I’m not snuggling up with you in mine.”

“It’s an ancient magical artifact,” Harry said matching Malfoy’s snide tone. “It won’t accept other forms of magic.”

“Well, I guess that’s just too bad, isn’t it?”

“Fine, Malfoy. Just get us where we’re going, all right?”

Harry bit back his groans as Malfoy hoisted him none too gently onto his back and plunged into the freezing storm. The distance to the shack wasn’t great, but it took at least fifteen minutes to plod through the blowing snow and building drifts. By the time they crashed through the door of the shack and slammed it behind them, Harry was shivering uncontrollably. Malfoy dropped him unceremoniously on the floor and fumbled in the dark to light a small lantern.

Harry lay in a huddled heap, the Invisibility Cloak only partially covering his shuddering body. He couldn’t see much in the dim light and he was too cold to do more than curl into himself to maximize his body warmth. The potions he’d taken earlier were wearing off and the pain was coming back full force. His head was pounding.

“Here,” Malfoy said as a musty blanket dropped over Harry. It smelled of dust and something rank that Harry didn’t want to think about, but it provided a bit of warmth in the cold shelter.

“Th-th-thanks,” Harry murmured.

“I’ve brought you more potion, too,” Malfoy said, tucking the phial into Harry’s hand. “You might want to save it for morning.”

Harry nodded, unable to force words through his chattering teeth.

Malfoy sat on the floor with his back against the door, breathing heavily. After a while the only sound was the bitter gale angrily buffeting the small wooden shack nestled among several large boulders. As the walls shuddered precariously, Harry wondered how many years it had withstood nature’s fury and if tonight would be the night that it finally gave up the ghost.

So far the fates had been with them. They were still alive. He had Malfoy to thank for that. Pushing away the drowsiness trying to claim him, Harry cracked his eyelids to look at Malfoy, but could make out only a fuzzy, unmoving shape.

“Malfoy? You okay?” Harry whispered.

“Yeah.” Malfoy sounded weary—emotionally and physically. “Just resting before I have to go back and put on a show.”

“Malfoy?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be sure—”

“Don’t go making any rash promises until we get out of here,” Malfoy said irritably as he stood. “You going to make it until morning?”

“Yeah. You’ll bring breakfast, right?” Harry tried to make the joke lightly, but it came out sounding rather pathetic.

Malfoy snorted. “Do I _look_ like a house-elf?”

_House-elf._

Harry gave a bark of laughter that quickly escalated into hysterical giggles laced with gasps of pain.

“Potter! What’s got into you? Have you finally gone round the twist?”

“House-elf!” Harry gasped, clutching his sides in pain even as he continued to laugh helplessly. “Malfoy—ha ha ha ha ha—you’re—hee hee hee hee—bloody—ha ha ha ha ha—brilliant!”

“Potter, what are you on about?”

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes and lay back on the floor catching his breath for a moment before saying in a loud voice, “Kreacher!”

Malfoy jumped a foot in the air as, with a crack, the ancient house-elf appeared between them.

“Master Harry. Kreacher has been worried. Why have you not called before now?” Kreacher bowed low. “Ah, young Master Malfoy. It is Kreacher’s pleasure to meet you once more.”

“Bloody hell!” Malfoy said. “Why couldn’t you have thought of that inside?”

“I wish I’d thought of it days ago, but your mates in there with the Quidditch bats kind of muddled my brain.”

“Sod it all, Potter. Now my cover’s blown.”

Harry squinted solemnly at the house elf. “Kreacher, you must never tell anyone that you’ve seen Malfoy with me. No one. Ever. You must not even speak of it to me, understand?”

“As you wish Master,” Kreacher said, bowing so low his nose touched his toes.

Harry looked back up at Malfoy. “You’d better go before you’re missed.”

“Right, then. I guess I’ll see you round.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Malfoy turned and put his hand on the latch.

“Malfoy.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll—I’ll make sure you’re rewarded for this.”

“Yeah. You do that Potter. You do that.”

When the door had closed again on the blizzard, Harry held out his hand. “Kreacher, take me to the Minister’s Office.”

***

_Thrummmp. Thrummmp. Thrummmp._

The rhythmic drumming was the first thing Harry heard when the blackness receded.

_Thrummmp. Thrummmp. Thrummmp._

The rhythm kept time with the throbbing pain in his head. Or maybe it was the other way round. He lay very still, listening. This was becoming second nature—waiting to assess the environment before showing any sign of life.

_Thrummmp. Thrummmp. Thrummmp._

The drumming was as maddening as a dripping tap. Must be the Death Eater version, designed to drive their victims slowly insane. Harry shifted his attention to his other senses. No, it couldn’t be Death Eaters. The surface beneath him was comfortable and warm and smelled clean. Ah, now it was coming back. He remembered landing with a thud on the soft carpet in Shacklebolt’s office and Kreacher trying to protect him through the resulting pandemonium. His last memory before passing out was sending Kreacher back home. So, he presumed, he was most likely in a bed at St. Mungo’s.

_Thrummmp. Thrummmp. Thrummmp._

And if he was in a bed at St. Mungo’s, he knew exactly what the sound was—which made it even more annoying.

“Enough with the finger-drumming, Summers. You’re driving me mad,” Harry said without bothering to open his eyes since he wouldn’t be able to see without his glasses anyway.

_Thrum—_

“Being mad is like being pregnant, Potter. You either are or you aren’t. I can’t be _driving_ you mad because everyone knows you’ve been there for years.”

Harry gave a little laugh that quickly turned into a moan as he grabbed his head.

“Merlin, what did they do? I feel like I’ve got a Blast-Ended Skrewt going off in my brain.”

“Bone repair potion. New formula. S’posed to work faster. They said it might have that side effect.”

“Urgh. Wish they’d go back to the old stuff. This isn’t worth whatever time they’re saving.”

“Guess you would know, huh?”

“Yeah. I’m the leading test case.”

“So, how do you feel otherwise?”

Harry did a quick inventory of his aches and pains and found surprisingly little else. “Not too bad, considering.”

“Yeah, considering.” Summers sounded grim so Harry opened his eyes to give him a bleary look.

“Here,” Summers laid Harry’s glasses in his hand. “Your evil twin had them. They just brought him in. Got your wand, too, there on the night table.”

“Thanks,” Harry said as he settled the glasses onto his nose. “Nice to be able to see again. I wonder if the Healers have a potion or something that I can take so I don’t need them.”

“You don’t look like yourself without them.”

“Yeah, but I’m at a definite disadvantage in battle if something happens to them. If nothing else, the Muggles have some that you apply directly to the eyeball. I might check into them.”

“Yeah, maybe you should,” Summers said, then shifted restlessly in his chair and began a careful study of the cuticle around his thumbnail. “Um, Potter, listen I—uh, well—I need to apologize.”

Harry frowned in confusion then regretted the action when pain sliced between his temples. “Apologize? For what?”

“For not covering your back. I was the last one to see you and I should’ve made sure you got inside all right…”

“Don’t be daft. It wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t even supposed to stay.”

“So why did you?”

Harry stared at the ceiling for a moment, sorting through his memories of the skirmish and how he had thought Malfoy had betrayed them. He still wasn’t positive Malfoy wasn’t playing both sides of the fence. “There were more of them than we’d expected. I couldn’t leave the unit short-handed,” he finally said.

“So, did your, um—contact—get out?”

“Yeah.”

“You had help escaping, too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Summers waited a moment, so Harry added, “We should definitely make better use of house-elves.”

Summers gave a half-hearted smile, then looked back at his thumb. “You were pretty beat up. What kind of spells did they use for that?”

“Quidditch bats.” Harry quirked a smile at the shock on Summers’ face. “They said the feel of them thudding against my skull was more satisfying than using a wand. Of course, they got bored with that after a while and switched to the Cruciatus.”

Summers shook his head in wonder. “Potter, you do manage to get yourself into some interesting corners.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, how did the raid turn out?”

“Not too bad. We got about fifty of them. But Dolohov got away.”

“Yeah. I saw him. Did we lose anyone?”

“Just you.”

“Oh, well that’s good, then.”

“Yeah, tell that to Robards. Especially since it took Granger and Weasley to point out that we’d brought back an imposter in your place. Robards has been in a royal rage.”

“Do they know I’m back yet? Ron and Hermione?”

“No, Robards wanted his turn at you before we got swarmed with Weasleys. I hear the mum is madder than a mother dragon missing an egg and the rest of them aren’t far behind. Word is she nearly took Shacklebolt apart for letting you go in the first place. That’s some protective family you’ve got there, Potter.”

A protective family. He had a protective family. The thought warmed Harry like mulled mead. He cleared his throat and changed the subject to hide the dampness forming in the corners of his eyes. “So did he—the imposter—do any damage?”

“Nah. Tried to empty your vault—Bill Weasley put a stop to that. He also tried to access some of the high-priority confidential files. We all had a turn at watching him. You’ve got loads of new best friends. Oh, by the way, Daphne volunteered for the night shift. Seems your alter ego was a lot more receptive to her attention than you are.”

Harry groaned. “Did the press get onto it?”

“Sorry, mate. Nothing we could do about it. We couldn’t let on that we knew you weren’t you, in case they were keeping you alive for the Polyjuice. Robards was afraid if they found out we knew, they’d off you in a heartbeat.”

Harry let out a sigh of resignation. “You’re right about that. At least Ginny knows it wasn’t really me.” Harry turned narrowed eyes on Summers. “She _does_ know that, doesn’t she?” At Summers’s unconcerned shrug, Harry threw back the covers. “I need to get out of here,” he said as he tried to sit up and nearly passed out again from the pain and dizziness that washed over him.

Summers pushed him back down onto the pillow. “Better stay put. I’m supposed to let the boss know when you wake up. Debriefing time, you know.

Harry scowled, then winced. “That’s going to take forever and I’m a dead man if I don’t get to Hogwarts.”

“You’re not fit to go anywhere yet. Besides, she’s waited this long, she can wait a few more hours.”

Harry closed his eyes against the spinning room and drew in some careful breaths to quell the churning in his stomach. “What day is it?”

“Friday. Well, Saturday now, I guess. About half two.”

“Saturday!” Harry raised his head and immediately eased back to the pillow when the black stars blossomed before his eyes. “I’ve been gone a week? She really is going to kill me. She made me promise to let her know if I was going to be doing something dangerous. I told her this wasn’t.”

“Hang on.” Summers sounded incredulous. “You’re supposed to let her know _if_ you’re going to be doing something dangerous? She does understand that you’re training to be an Auror, yeah? And your whole life is going to be one long dangerous situation?”

“Yeah. I tried to make that point,” Harry said with a heavy sigh.

“We _are_ still talking about Ginny Weasley, right? Fought in the Department of Mysteries and twice at Hogwarts? Ran the student resistance movement last year? Stole Gryffindor’s sword from Snape’s office? Same girl, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry opened his eyes then closed them to keep the bed from whirling. “She’s got a bit, um, skittish about this stuff since she thought I died and her brother _did_ die and the episode with Greyback and all. She’ll come round,” Harry said with more confidence than he felt. “She just thought I had a couple of years before I’d see any action.”

Summers crowed with laughter. “Oh, this is getting better and better. She does know who _you_ are, doesn’t she? You’ve been seeing action since you were eleven. Action comes looking for you. What makes her think anything’s different now?”

Harry was beginning to get irritated, but was too weak to do anything about it. “We thought I’d get a bit of time off for good behavior, all right?”

Harry opened his eyes in time to see Summers roll his. “Potter, if you retired to raise petunias—”

“Believe me, I’d _never_ raise _petunias_.”

“—you’d never get any time off. The Dark Wizards are going to be coming after you until you’re old and grey. Little Miss Weasley had better get used to it, or you’re in for a long, hard haul.”

Harry’s patience finally came to an end. “Summers, either get me out of here or get Robards in here so we can get this over with. I’m supposed to be meeting her for Hogsmeade weekend today.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll be lucky if they turn you loose by Monday.”

Harry glared at him as he headed into the hall, then closed his eyes and grimaced as the top of his head threatened to blow off.

The sun was well over the horizon by the time Robards was satisfied with the first telling of the chain of events. Harry was careful to keep Malfoy’s name, if not his role, out of the story. Robards finally left the Healers flitting around the bed, bellowing an order over his shoulder as he went out the door for Harry to be in his office first thing Monday morning.

Harry spent another twenty minutes convincing the Healers that he was fine since they’d given him that last phial of pain potion and that staying in bed would only make matters worse because he was going to end up hexing someone if they tried to force him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his boots when Kingsley Shacklebolt walked in.

“Minister!” Harry jumped to attention, then had to catch himself on the edge of the table when a wave of blackness washed over him.

“Don’t get up, Harry. I just wanted to see for myself that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, sir.” He remained standing but continued to hold onto the table as he got his balance.

“I’m glad to see it. You gave us a right good scare.”

“Sorry, sir. It wasn’t intentional.”

“No, I don’t suppose it was.” Shacklebolt’s rumbling laugh made Harry duck his head, face flaming. He gripped the table harder as he swayed a bit.

“Sit back down, son. You look like you’re going to fall over.”

“I’m fine. I... I need to get to Hogwarts. Ginny will be worried.”

“Your whole family is worried, but yes, she seemed to be taking it the hardest.”

Harry’s head snapped up in surprise and he finally sank back down to the edge of the bed as the room pitched dangerously. “You’ve seen her?”

“I saw her Tuesday. And Minerva’s been keeping me posted. I sent several Aurors to watch over her today. I heard the press is planning an invasion.”

“Thank you. I should’ve been there…” Harry sighed. “How is she? I mean... she was pretty upset when I left. This wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. At least that’s what I told her.” Harry felt the blood rush up his face again as the Minister’s eyes narrowed.

“You shouldn’t mislead her like that, Harry. Any mission you go on could turn dangerous in a second, as you well know by now. Aurors’s families have the hardest time. Waiting for word isn’t easy.”

“I know, sir. I just... she was so upset... and I really didn’t think…” 

Shacklebolt studied him carefully for a moment before settling into the chair by the bed. He leaned his forearms on his knees, his eyes full of sympathy and concern. “Harry, did you know that nearly ninety percent of Auror marriages fail?”

The blood that had been heating Harry’s face drained from it in a flash as his eyes opened wide and a knot of panic filled his gut. “No, sir.”

“Can you guess why?”

Harry swallowed hard and shook his head.

“Mostly because spouses—both husbands and wives—can’t take the waiting, the uncertainty. I was lucky. I found a woman who loved me enough to learn to deal with it. She didn’t like it, but it took being honest with each other about it. We didn’t push it away or gloss over it. We talked about our fears and understood the possible consequences of my career. And we learned to make the most of every minute we have together. We’ve been married for nearly thirty years, but it didn’t just happen. It was a lot of hard work.”

Harry worried the corner of the sheet under his fingers. He wondered if Ginny would think him worth working for. He finally schooled his face and looked back at Shacklebolt. “Thank you for the advice, sir. I’ll keep it in mind.”

The Minister nodded. “Ginny’s a sweet girl. I hope it works out for you.”

Harry ducked his head again. “I do, too.”

Shacklebolt stood and patted Harry on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll let you get on with it, then. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, the looked up as Shacklebolt reached the door. “Minister, can I ask you one other thing?”

Shacklebolt walked back to the end of the bed and waited expectantly.

“I, uh... well, I had a bit of time to think, you know, when I was locked up. I got to thinking that, well, I wouldn’t even be here now if Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t done what she did, you know?” Harry stopped to check Shacklebolt’s reaction. At the Minister’s receptive nod, he drew a deep breath and continued. “I’ve really never done anything to thank her properly and, well, I just wondered if it might be possible to review her case... maybe let her off... for good behavior?”

Harry held his breath and met Shacklebolt’s steady gaze without blinking. He was counting on not having to say anything more to get what he needed. After a few seconds, the Minster cocked an eyebrow and Harry saw his expression shift subtly as he put the pieces together.

“Hmmm,” Shacklebolt said. “That might be possible. I’ll see what can be done.”


	16. A Different Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny's trip to Hogsmead turns dangerous and Harry's return isn't at all what he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins Ginny's real battle with deep clinical depression. She's not going to be very nice to anyone, especially Harry, and her focus will be mostly on herself (as is the case with most people battling depression). If you can't stomach that, bail now. But I promise she'll get better eventually.

Bleary-eyed and pale, Ginny stationed herself in the entry hall at dawn, long before the first students had begun trickling downstairs to breakfast. The night had been long and restless with vague dreams of endless searching for Harry that left her feeling terror-filled and defeated. Determined to keep herself busy and her mind off of her fears, she attended to her Head Girl duties with a vengeance, reminding each prefect of the patrol schedule and helping Filch check off the list of students leaving the castle. She managed to irritate everyone who crossed her path.

Dean waited patiently inside the front doors for her to finish. He’d told her that Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, Neville, and Luna would meet them outside.

When they finally emerged into the chilly November day, she stepped out the door and froze, her heart jumping to her throat. Two wizards in red Auror robes stood at the foot of the steps. Were they bringing good news or bad?

The taller of the two stepped forward. “Miss Weasley, I’m Jonathan Biggerstaff and this is Wendell Johnson. We’re assigned to protective duty for you today.”

Ginny blinked. She hadn’t expected that. “Protective duty? Why?”

Biggerstaff and Johnson exchanged a look she couldn’t interpret.

“Just following the Minister’s orders, Miss,” Biggerstaff finally said. “We’re to make sure you get to Hogsmeade and back safely.”

Ginny drew a deep breath. At least they weren’t bearing bad news. But she wondered if they might know something—anything—more… Dean and the others were watching with wide-eyed interest.

“Could I have a word, please?” she asked Biggerstaff. He nodded and they stepped away from the group.

“Have you heard... anything—” She stopped as the tightness in her throat closed off the words.

The Auror shook his head sadly. “No, nothing yet. I’m sorry.”

Closing her eyes, she drew a couple of steadying breaths. No news was good news, right? She turned back to the group with a falsely cheerful voice. “Are we ready?”

As they headed down the path to the gates with the Aurors in the lead, Neville cocked an eyebrow at her, the question apparent in his eyes. She shook her head slightly. He nodded in understanding, then looked at Lavender. “Where’s Parvati? I thought she was coming with us.”

Lavender cut her eyes quickly at Ginny before looking back at the ground in front of her feet. “She, um, decided to go with…” Ginny couldn’t hear the end of what she said.

“She actually _went_ with Zabini?” Seamus blurted. “Is she completely mental?”

“Shhh,” Lavender hissed and gave him a murderous look.

Dean leaned down to murmur in Ginny’s ear. “He asked her a week ago, but she didn’t tell him yes until she heard you were coming with us.”

“Oh, so you brought me along as protection, then, did you?” Ginny asked with the closest thing to a real smile that had touched her lips in a week.

“Whatever works,” Dean smirked, then his expression abruptly turned thunderous. “Oh, bloody hell…”

As they rounded the last curve in the path to the gates, the group stopped in their tracks and Ginny’s stomach fell to her knees. Two Aurors at the gates were frantically working to control a huge mob of reporters and photographers that broke into a frenzy at the sight of her. Biggerstaff and Johnson had drawn their wands and were looking back at her uncertainly.

“Ginny, let’s go back,” Dean said. “You don’t need to deal with this.”

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. All of the planning she’d done for this weekend and she hadn’t even _thought_ about the bloody press. What in the world had she been thinking? Well, obviously, she hadn’t been. Why wouldn’t she have realized what going into Hogsmeade would mean? Ron had warned her. Hermione and Fleur had warned her. Harry had warned her. And she still hadn’t understood that her life was never again going to be normal.

She stared in wonder at the crowd beyond the gate, swarming over one another, pushing and shouting and fighting for position. Vultures, Harry called them. Perhaps they had sensed how dead she felt inside and were circling for a chance to pick her bones. Actually, they looked more like a single organism, perhaps a new, more dangerous, multicolored breed of Devil’s Snare, putting off poisonous puffs of purple smoke and sending quill-shaped tendrils out to choke the life from her. Regardless, they were repulsive and all the warning voices in her head were screaming for her to run.

Dean tugged at her elbow, pulling her back toward the castle. “Come on, Ginny. I’ll stay with you. You don’t have to do this.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes from the writhing knot of people shouting at her. Her voice came out flat and hoarse. “Yes, I do. I’m Head Girl. I have responsibilities.”

“I can handle it—” Neville started before Ginny cut him off.

“No. You’ve had to carry more than your share of the load already this year. I can’t skive off again.”

“You can make it up some other way,” Neville said with a shake of his head. “This is mental.”

She watched the agitated jockeying of the mob for a moment and suddenly all of the pent up emotion of the week burst forth as righteous fury. “No! This is _my_ life and I am _not_ going to let them run it. We’re going. We’ll just... we’ll just... ignore them.”

Neville and Seamus looked at her like she had gone completely around the twist. Ginny wondered if they weren’t right. Lavender cowered behind them.

Dean’s jaw went slack. “Ignore them? Ginny...”

Luna, looking more focused than usual, put her arm through Ginny’s. “We have faced Death Eaters and Glumbumbles together. This should be no trouble at all.”

Anger coursing through her veins, Ginny drew strength from the squeeze Luna gave her. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and marched resolutely toward the gates.

With the Aurors in the lead, the boys and Luna closed ranks around her. Lavender hurried to keep up with Seamus, although she looked like she was having second, third, and fourth thoughts about being part of the group. The chaos rose to fever pitch as they passed between the winged boars amid a strobe of camera flashes. The Aurors at the gates cast restraint charms to allow Ginny’s group to move beyond the crowd, then hurried to catch up and serve as rear guard.

Before they had gone far, the reporters and photographers began Apparating into the road ahead of them, shooting pictures and shouting questions over one another, trying to get her attention. The Aurors kept them at a distance, allowing Ginny and her friends room to walk, but when the unruly procession hit the edge of the village, the chaos and confusion attracted attention from all quarters. Students and villagers alike stared and pointed. Ginny found her resolve flagging. Dean noticed.

“Let’s get off the street,” he whispered, guiding the group into the Three Broomsticks.

Once inside, Seamus rousted a group of third-years from the table in the farthest corner of the pub. Without removing her cloak, Ginny sank gratefully into a chair and dropped her head into her hands. Even with the Aurors stationed at the door, the reporters tried to force their way in. Madam Rosmerta shouted them down. “No cameras or Quick Quotes Quills in my pub, you hear? This is a respectable business establishment. If you’re not eating or drinking, get out!”

Ginny slid down in her chair. The students and other customers were in an uproar, too, not bothering to whisper their displeasure about the rowdy crowd and the intrusion on their holiday weekend.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny muttered to her friends. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Neville said. “You didn’t ask for this.”

Everyone murmured agreement. Even Lavender looked sympathetic.

“No, but I should’ve realized and planned better.”

“So, I hear this is all your doin’.” Ginny looked up to find Madam Rosmerta standing over her with a compassionate smile.

“I’m really sorry,” Ginny said. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, love. A bit of excitement now and again keeps life interesting. What can I bring you to drink?”

The kind words did little to calm Ginny’s queasy stomach and the last thing she wanted was anything to eat or drink, but she thought she should get something just to make it worth Madam Rosmerta’s trouble. Firewhiskey (and lots of it) was what she really wanted, but she asked for hot Butterbeer, instead.

Ginny watched the frenzied crowd of reporters through the window. Those who weren’t trying to take pictures through the murky glass were interviewing any student who passed them on the street—Romilda Vane looked to be in her element with a growing audience hanging on her every word. Madam Rosmerta, on her way back to their table with the drinks, evicted two photographers who’d sneaked in the back way. Ginny’s corner of the pub grew strangely quiet as everyone sipped from their mugs.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Ginny said after a few moments. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”

“ _You_ didn’t ruin everything,” Dean said gesturing with his thumb at the windows. “ _They_ did.”

“But they wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.” Her breath caught in her throat and her lungs clenched. The warm, sweet drink had begun to churn in her empty stomach and suddenly she had to move. “I need to go,” she said through her fingers as she raced blindly for the bathroom.

She made it to the loo just in time to retch the one swallow of her drink that she’d taken, but even when her stomach was long past empty, the heaves continued until she was hoarse and weak. At some point, someone had come behind her to hold her hair and cloak out of the way. When she finished and sank to the floor, trembling and damp with sweat, whoever had come to help pressed a wet cloth into her hand. She closed her eyes and buried her face in it.

“All right, now?”

Ginny lifted her head in surprise. Lavender? She sounded concerned, but that couldn’t be. Ginny recalled too many overheard conversations in their dormitory room.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ginny said with a bitter laugh. “I can only imagine what they’ll do with that in the papers. ‘Potter’s Girlfriend Potted,’ or some such.” She sat back and leaned her head against the wall, sighing in defeat. “Isn’t it wonderful to be me? Is that why you followed me in here? To gloat? Or to get the real story so you can sell it to the press?”

Lavender flinched as if she’d been struck. Her voice lost the tone of concern and turned hard. “No. I actually came to see if you needed help, but I can see that you don’t, so I’ll just go.”

“No, wait!” Ginny held out her hand as Lavender turned to open the door. When she stopped, Ginny continued more softly. “Wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry. You did help. Thank you. I’m—” The tears she’d held off for a week rushed through her chest to ram painfully into the backs of her eyes. Oh, dear Merlin, she couldn’t start crying now. They’d see. Everyone would see and they’d take pictures and—

Ginny closed her eyes and bit her lip, choking back sobs and swallowing hard to push her emotions back into the pit where they were supposed to remain buried.

“I didn’t know,” Lavender said after a few minutes. “I never realized how bad—”

Ginny just nodded, still trying to get herself under control.

Someone tapped on the door.

“Ginny? Lavender? All right in there?”

Dean’s worried face appeared when Lavender cracked open the door. “Yeah. She’s—” Lavender glanced quickly back at Ginny before turning back to Dean. "—not good. Give us a few more minutes.”

Ginny couldn’t make out Dean’s muffled reply, but Lavender nodded and closed the door, then looked uncertainly at Ginny. “What now?”

Pushing herself shakily from the floor, Ginny staggered to the sink and leaned on it for a moment, waiting for the wave of lightheadedness to pass. She felt trapped, like a hunted animal. Rational thought was becoming harder by the minute. Her heart hammered against her ribs, echoing her need to race for safety. “I need to get out of here…get back to the castle.”

“Do you want me to go with you to the front?”

“Bloody hell, no!” Ginny clutched the sink like a rock in a storm. “I can’t go back that way.”

Lavender watched her for a moment, thinking. “Could you Apparate? Back to the gates?”

Ginny gave her a twisted smile. “I can’t. Never learned how. So much happened last year…” She shrugged and stared at a wad of hair caught in the drain beneath her hands. “Then by my birthday—that was when—” She stopped and drew a shuddering breath.

Lavender nodded in understanding, absently rubbing her own shoulder where the werewolf had bitten her during the final battle.

“What about the Aurors? One of them could take you.”

Ginny shook her head. “I don’t think I’m up to Apparating just now.” She could just see herself puking all over those red robes.

Raising her eyes to the mirror over the sink, Ginny gasped in shock at the pale face before her. She didn’t recognize herself. Dark purple smudges under red-rimmed eyes and rose-colored freckles stood out in stark relief against translucent skin that had sunk into hollows she’d never noticed. Her hair hung in limp wisps, the normally gold-flecked ginger dulled to muddy tarnished copper. Fleur would be mortified to know that she’d come here, where the press could see her, looking like this. She ran a trembling hand through her hair and closed her eyes again. “Merlin, I’m so tired. I just can’t think.”

A moment later, Ginny opened her eyes in surprise at the stroke of a brush through her hair. Lavender was watching her in the mirror, a look of determination in her eyes as she worked.

“We can slip out the back. But we need to do something with this to make you less noticeable. If we can get to the Hog’s Head, I’m sure Aberforth will let us go through to the Room of Requirement.” She laid down the brush and began to weave Ginny’s locks into a tight braid. “This red is still rather obvious. I could try a coloring charm if you want.”

“No, let’s just pull it back and cover it up.” Ginny closed her eyes and submitted to Lavender’s grooming, relieved to let someone else take charge for the moment. She wasn’t sure why she had decided all of a sudden to trust Lavender—or why Lavender was even helping—but it felt like the right thing to do.

Producing several cosmetic potions from her handbag, Lavender worked some quick magic on Ginny’s complexion.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “At least if they catch you, you’ll look better.”

Ginny grimaced at her in the mirror but did appreciate the improvement. She looked a bit less like a ghost with two black eyes. “Thanks. But getting caught is the last thing I want to do.”

When they stepped into the hallway, Dean was waiting for them. Lavender quickly explained the plan.

“Wait for me,” he said with a concerned glance at Ginny. “I’ll get the others to create a diversion out front.”

After a few moments, he slipped back into the dim corridor and led them to the rear exit. Lavender settled Ginny’s hood over her head and tightened the clasps. When the sounds of chaos erupted from the front of the building, Dean peeked out the back door, stuck the tip of his wand through the crack, then gestured for them to follow him.

As they slipped quickly down the back steps, he muttered, “Had to Confund a couple of them. Let’s go behind the Post Office then round to the street. It’ll be easier to hide in the crowd.”

With Lavender holding her arm on one side and Dean on the other, both with their wands drawn but held in the folds of their cloaks, Ginny kept her eyes steadfastly on the ground ahead of her and concentrated on keeping her footing on the cobbled road. They were quickly absorbed into the chattering mass of students and, for the first time since entering the Three Broomsticks, Ginny thought she might be able to breathe again. If they could make it past the next three shops—Honeyduke’s, a still-boarded shop, and Zonko’s—to Gladrag’s, then turn the corner, they’d have it made.

They made it only as far as Zonko’s before they were spotted.

Dean tried another Confundus Charm, but the bloke was wearing a Weasley Shield Hat and the spell bounced off. He dogged their steps, maintaining a constant stream of chatter between flashes of his camera.

“Come on, Ginny, luv, give us a good picture, yeah? What do you think of Harry stepping out on yeh with that Darlin’ bird? Does this mean it’s quits for the two of yeh? You were looking mighty green before yeh disappeared into the loo. Was it too much drink? Or are you carryin’ his babe?”

Ginny’s breath hitched, but she kept her eyes glued to the ground and hurried her steps.

“Just go away and leave her alone,” Lavender said, pointing her wand at the man.

Dean stepped up to block the reporter’s path, but the rest of the flock descended and he was quickly sucked away from them. Ginny and Lavender clung to each other as they were jostled about like a Quaffle between Chasers. Palms sweaty from terror, Ginny could feel Lavender’s arm slipping from her grasp. With a final wrench, she lost her grip.

Questions roared around her. Cameras flashed mercilessly. Ginny flailed blindly against her persecutors. Panic stole her breath and sent her heart crashing against her chest. She was living one of her nightmares.

She stumbled, landing hard on her hands and knees. Crumpling into a quivering ball, she threw her arms over her head. “Go away…please, please, go away.”

The chaos above her grew. She could hear shouts—the Aurors had arrived. But the cacophony and flashes only intensified, like thunder and lightning in a fierce storm. Shaking violently and screaming in terror, she curled into herself—she was going to die, just like the Muggle princess.

Abruptly everything grew quiet, but for the sound of her sobs and a lone voice.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

That voice… it couldn’t be…

Ginny sat up and blinked to clear her eyes. The crowd had backed away and was staring in fear or awe or surprise—she couldn’t tell which and when she saw what—who—they were staring at she didn’t care.

Harry.

He stood in the middle of the street, wand drawn, his cloak whirling around him, looking every bit the conquering hero.

Unable to make either her mind or mouth form words, she moaned as she stumbled to her feet. Before she could take two steps, his arms were around her and she buried her face in his neck, desperately breathing in his scent and clutching him as if she never intended to let go. He was real. Oh, Merlin, he was okay. She collapsed against him with renewed tears.

“Hang on,” he whispered. “I’m getting us out of here.”

Still sobbing uncontrollably, she barely noticed the compression as she clung to him through their Apparition. When they appeared outside of Hogwarts’ gates, he lifted her easily and carried her onto the grounds, to the small grove of trees where they’d hidden the first time he had come in September. Great heaving shudders wracked her body as he sat next to a tree and cradled her close, stroking her back and whispering soothing words in her ear.

He was here. He was alive.

Her muddled mind fought to take it in. She could feel his heart beating next to hers, his warm breath on her cheek as he murmured softly in her ear. Snuggling into his embrace and inhaling deeply, she finally managed to will her breathing into an even rhythm, broken only by the occasional hiccough. He rubbed his cheek in her hair, seemingly content to just sit and rock her like a baby. She thought she might be able to stay right here forever.

He dropped a kiss on top of her head, then tipped her chin up to place one on her forehead and then her lips. His mouth was gentle, tentative, and she met his questioning caress with her own, equally questioning. Pulling back, he looked into her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

The quiet, simple words broke through the fog in her brain. He should be sorry. He’d promised. He’d said it wasn’t dangerous. He—

She threw the brakes on that train of thought before it built too much steam. He was back, alive, safe. All of the things she’d wished for all week. She studied his face, wondering what had caused the fading bruises over his eye and along his chin. How many more bruises did he have? What other injuries that she couldn’t see? What had he been through? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

He was here. He was alive. Apparently not unharmed, but alive.

But for how long? When would he leave again? How long before she would have to wait and wonder if she’d ever see him again?

His green eyes seemed to register her turmoil. She broke their gaze and laid her head on his shoulder. Mum always said don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow. He was here now. She should be happy.

So, why wasn’t she happy?

She _was_ happy. He was here. How could she not be happy?

“Ginny?” He sounded worried.

“Mmmm?” She didn’t want to talk right now. Talking right now would lead to no good.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded against him. He tightened his arms around her.

“Do you want to go inside? Up to the room? We need to talk.”

No, she didn’t. She wanted to sit right here and not think or talk or move ever again. If she did any of those things, neither one of them would be happy. She didn’t answer him and he didn’t press her. They sat quietly for a long time, just breathing against each other. She had nearly dozed off by the time he spoke again.

“Ginny? Are you awake?”

“Mmm,” she said with a small growl.

“Let’s go in.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nuzzled his neck, hoping to convey, without having to say it, how much she really didn’t want to move. If he made her talk, made her think, she was terrified of what would happen. Sitting quietly was best for now.

After several moments, he shifted and pushed her into a standing position. She held onto the tree while he stood next to her.

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asked, his eyes full of concern.

She remembered the pale wisp she’d seen in the mirror and realized what he must be thinking. “No, I’m fine. I can walk.”

She allowed him to take her hand. In spite of the warm connection between them, a chill descended over her, and as they moved away from their wooded sanctuary, the doubts and fears seeped back into her mind. She felt they’d left something behind that they might never be able to find again.

***

She was quiet. Too quiet.

Harry watched her worriedly as they stepped onto the seventh floor. He left her next to the tapestry and walked three times before the blank wall to make the door appear. Still as stone, she could have been one of the hallway statues, her arms wrapped around her middle as if she were cold or frightened. But it was the blank expression in her eyes that scared him the most.

He opened the door for her. She brushed past, flinching away when he put his hand at her back.

“Don’t,” she said tonelessly without looking at him. “I need to think. I can’t think when you touch me.”

A knot of terror formed in the pit of his stomach as he closed the door and watched her move to the fire. She held out her hands to warm them, then wrapped her arms back around herself.

He followed her to the hearth but stood several feet away, giving her space and time. The memories they’d created in this room flooded his mind, jarring in their contradiction of the scene before him. As the silence lengthened, the knot of fear began to uncoil and snake through his body, squeezing his lungs, forcing his heart into his throat.

“You promised.” She spoke so softly that he almost missed it. Her voice was flat, her unfocused eyes directed at the dancing flames before her.

He swallowed hard and finally managed to speak in a croak. “I... it wasn’t... I didn’t know. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like that.”

She nodded at the fire but waited several minutes before speaking again in that empty voice. “This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?”

He wanted to deny it, tell her it would get better. But all he could do was nod.

“I never go out the front door of the castle if I can help it,” she said in that maddeningly soft, expressionless tone, her eyes staring into the distance, as if she were seeing another place and time. “Every time I walk down those steps, I see your body lying at the feet of Voldemort. I thought I would die, too.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She let it slide off her chin, as if she didn’t realize it was there. He longed to wrap her up in his arms and tell her he would never hurt her again. He clenched his fists at his side instead.

“That’s the way it’s going to be. You’ll go off into danger and I’ll wait and wonder if—when—someone is going to come tell me that you’re dead.”

“Ginny... I... I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” He deplored the note of desperation in his voice. He wanted to sound confident, reassuring.

She still wouldn’t look at him, but her voice grew hard, challenging him. “Will you always be? Can you promise?”

Harry opened his mouth to promise, but he couldn’t force the words out. His job would put him in constant danger and the chances were good that someday he might not come back. It was a risk he was willing to take.

He’d just never considered what that meant for Ginny.

“Do you...” He took a deep breath. “Do you want me to stop?”

She gave a sharp, humorless laugh and swiped a hand across her eyes. “Can you? I don’t think you know how.”

“I can. I will.”

“Honestly, Harry? Do you _honestly_ believe that?” she asked with weary disbelief.

“Yes, I do!” he snapped, desperate to get through to her. “I love you! I’ll do whatever it takes to—”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harry!” Her temper finally flared, too, and she turned on him with a piercing stare, tears streaming down her face. “Are you going to stop breathing, too?”

“Ginny, please…” He took a step forward and reached for her, but she stepped away to avoid his touch.

He dropped his arm and dug his nails into his palms in frustration. He couldn’t keep the panic from his voice. “What do I do, then? What do you want me to do?”

She rubbed her arms, as if to warm herself, and looked back at the fire.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I... I don’t know if I can do this, Harry. I... don’t think I can be what you need—”

“I don’t need you to _be_ anything, Ginny. I just need—”

She whirled on him, eyes burning. “Stop! Just stop! You don’t understand. I can’t _do_ this! You don’t know what it’s like to sit around and wait and wonder, trying so hard to believe, but…” Closing her eyes, she drew a shaky breath. She looked so miserable. All Harry wanted was to hold her close and make everything right again. He took half a step toward her, but stopped when she opened her eyes and pinned him in place. “I was scared out of my mind—even worse than when I was in that bloody cottage last summer—because I didn’t know where you were or what they were doing to you… And I couldn’t _do_ anything... I couldn’t do anything but wait…”

Shacklebolt’s words echoed in his head: _nearly ninety percent of Auror marriages fail…because spouses can’t take the waiting…_

Terror ripped through him and he found it impossible to keep his voice steady. “Please, Ginny… We can work this out. I know we can…”

“How? _How_ can we work it out, Harry?”

“I said I’d stop…”

“And _I_ know you can’t! You might mean that now, but something will come up. It always does... just like this time. You promised! You promised not to do something dangerous and then you did it anyway!”

“I told you I didn’t think—”

“That’s right—you didn’t _think_!” She stopped and took a steadying breath, but her voice was only slightly less hysterical. “You act first, Harry, and think later. You always have. It’s…it’s one of the things I love about you. How brave you are. How you always think of others first. But I can’t…I just can’t _live_ with that.” She hugged herself again and turned once more to the fire.

Harry’s mind raced, searching for the words that would make her listen. None came. The survival instincts that had served him time and again against the forces of evil failed him when it came to love. No dementor had ever left him so hopeless. “Ginny, please…”

“I can’t do it.” Her voice was barely audible, as if she’d stepped into another time and place. “I’m so tired… so tired… I just... I don’t have anything left to give…”

The look on her face had changed and he watched helplessly as she retreated into herself, shutting him out…

He’d lost her.

As the realization pierced his heart, he jerked in physical pain. Even so, he wasn’t much surprised. He’d always felt his time with her had been like something out of someone else’s life, as if he’d stolen it and would one day have to give it back. Today must be the day.

Despair swallowed him whole. He backed into the shadows, willing the trembling in his hands to stop and the burning behind his eyes to go away. He wanted to scream at her not to do this, to grab her and promise that it would get better, that she would get used to it, that he would make it okay. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg.

But he couldn’t.

From the time he was a year old, he’d learned that he couldn’t make someone love him if they’d decided not to. No amount of begging or crying or screaming or fighting would change their mind.

All of his emotional defensive shields dropped into place.

“I should go,” he whispered hoarsely. He wanted her to tell him to stay, to fling herself into his arms and say that she loved him.

“I just need some time…” she whispered to the fire.

He nodded and backed away. She didn’t move. The walk to the door took an eternity. He opened it and paused, willing her to stop him, using every ounce of his remaining strength to keep from looking back at her. After a moment of silence, he walked out and closed the door.


	17. A Trick of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny deal with the aftermath of their break-up. (Major suicide triggers in this chapter.)

Harry didn’t remember walking through the castle or passing through the great oak front doors. His mind was blank with shock as his feet took him blindly down the path past the gaping stares of the students returning from Hogsmeade.

So when Dean Thomas stepped in front of him, hands clenched and face furious, Harry was surprised to find himself just inside the main gates.

“I said, where is she?” Dean’s voice quivered with rage.

Harry gave him a vacant stare, his brain refusing to respond.

“How could you just go off and leave her, you bastard?”

Harry didn’t see the punch coming—he hit the ground hard and didn’t bother to get up. Bruised jaw reverberating from old and new injuries, he decided the pain was good. He’d earned it, hadn’t he? The distant clicks and pops of the cameras beyond the gates were even better; public humiliation added the perfect touch.

Dean stepped closer and loomed over him, fists clenched. “I can’t believe, after what you’ve put her through this week, that you’re going to just walk away. You’ve got bloody brilliant timing.”

Harry pushed up on his elbow and ran a hand over his tender jaw, his brain finally beginning to reluctantly cooperate. “She didn’t give me a choice,” he said bitterly, then squinted up at Dean. “I mucked up. Here’s your chance.”

Dean pulled his arm back as if to land another blow. “I oughta—”

“Go ahead.” Harry eased into a sitting position to give Dean an easier target. “I won’t stop you.”

Dean shook his head in disgust and lowered his fist. “Where is she?”

Harry looked past him at the group behind. “Luna will know.”

Luna nodded in understanding and headed for the castle, followed closely by Lavender. Seamus and Neville hung back, apparently ready to break up the impending fight. But Dean just gave Harry one last look of loathing and turned to follow Luna up the path.

Harry watched him go, wishing he’d goaded the git into taking a few more swings. Maybe then the pain outside would eclipse the ache inside that was ripping his soul apart.

***

Harry wasn’t quite sure how he managed to Apparate into Hermione’s back garden without Splinching himself. He hadn’t consciously decided to go there, much less concentrated on even one of the “three D’s.” And now that he found himself with icy rain dripping down his neck, standing in the mud among the brown corpses of long-dead flowers, he couldn’t collect his thoughts enough to figure out what to do next.

“Harry! Oh, Harry, you’re back.” Hermione wrapped herself around him and pulled him into the flat. “We were so worried.”

He allowed her to remove his cloak and dry him off with her wand before pushing him into a chair as she chattered away.

“We just got the call from Robards. Ron’s gone to the Burrow to keep his mum from haring off to Hogwarts to see—wait!” She stopped and grabbed his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be at Hogwarts. Where’s Ginny? Harry, what’s happened?” Her voice had taken on a hint of panic.

He turned empty eyes on her and his breath hitched. He wasn’t going to be able to talk through the knot in his throat. Biting into his lip, he tilted his head back and blinked hard at the ceiling to hold back the rush of tears. He’d had everything he’d ever wanted, right there in his hands, and he’d been stupid enough to throw it all away. Ginny was right. He’d saved the world once. Why couldn’t he just let it be, let someone else do it?

Hermione dropped to her knees next to him and took his hand. “Harry, what’s wrong? What happened?”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, willing himself into control before he could speak. “She... she sent me away.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “No! Oh, Harry, no. You misunderstood. Ginny wouldn’t do that.”

He shook his head. “No, she was clear. Very clear. She... she wouldn’t let me touch her. She—” His voice broke and he dropped his head into his hands, fighting to keep from breaking down completely.

Hermione stood. Harry could hear her moving around, opening cupboard doors. She pressed a glass into his hand and set the bottle of Firewhiskey on the table. He threw back the shot and refilled the glass with shaking hands. When he downed that glass and reached for the bottle again, she moved it out of his reach.

“That’s enough. Tell me what happened.” She sat in the chair across the table and folded her hands in front of her, waiting expectantly.

Harry ran his fingers under his glasses to clear his eyes and sniffled loudly. It took several moments for the alcohol to loosen the coil of despair in his chest and free his voice. He stared at the table as he told her in a flat tone what had happened. Ron came in midway through, but Hermione glared him into silence and he sat down.

“So, when you first got there, she was glad to see you?” Hermione asked when Harry got to the end of the story.

He paused, going over the scene in his head. _Had_ she been glad? “I don’t know. She was in such a state. The reporters were all over her. They had her trapped on the ground, she was screaming and crying… It was all I could do not to hex the lot of them. All I could think about was getting her out of there. And once we got back to the gates, she was so... so... I had to carry her in and I just sat down so I could hold her until she settled a bit. She wouldn’t talk to me.”

“But she let you touch her? At first?”

His brow furrowed as he sorted through the memory. “Yeah. Yeah, she was holding on like she thought I was going to disappear. But she wouldn’t talk to me. It wasn’t until we went into the castle that she—” He raised his eyes. “She just went all cold. You should’ve seen her, Hermione. It was like she’d stepped through a portal into another dimension and wouldn’t let me follow. She was right there, but she was so far away. And when I tried to touch her, she stepped away and told me—” His voice broke again and he stared into the fire. It was one thing to break down in front of Hermione, but something entirely different in front of Ron.

“What did she say, Harry? Did she tell you to leave?”

Harry frowned, trying to recall the scene he’d thought had been burned into his brain. He vividly remembered the look on her face and the fear gnawing at his gut, but the words were a tangled web. “I... she said... she asked if it was always going to be like this…having to wait and wonder if I was coming back. She said... she said she didn’t think she could do it, that she couldn’t be what I needed.” He swallowed hard again. “I told her she didn’t need to be anything else. I told her I’d stop, but she wouldn’t listen… she wouldn’t believe me. She said I couldn’t, and that she couldn’t bear the waiting… But I can’t do it, not without her. I can’t do this…” He stopped and dropped his head into his hands as his throat closed up again.

“Harry…” Hermione’s voice had taken on a soothing tone. “She’s been through a lot this year. Maybe she just needs some time.”

Harry’s head jerked up. “Yes. That’s what she said. She needs some time.”

Hermione glanced quickly at Ron then gave Harry a piercing look. “Did she give it back?”

“Give it back?” Harry stared at her in confusion for a second before his eyes opened wide. “No. No, she didn’t,” he whispered in wonder.

He felt as though he’d just broken through the surface of the flood of despair he’d been drowning in and could finally breathe again. A trickle of hope began to pool in his chest.

She hadn’t given back his ring. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

“Maybe it’s not so bad, then?” Hermione said with an encouraging look.

“Yeah,” Harry said, the relief palpable in his voice. He gave a little laugh and leaned back in his chair as the tension drained from his body. “Yeah, maybe not so bad.”

Ron was looking back and forth between them. “Give what back?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said. “Your mum was okay?”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, narrowing his eyes as he continued to study them both curiously. “But she’s going to want to see you soon, Harry.”

Ignoring Ron, Harry sat up abruptly as a thought occurred to him. “Hermione, how much time? She said she needs time. How much?”

“I don’t know. It depends—”

“But I need to see her. How long do I have to wait? A couple of days? A week? Can I go back next weekend?” He knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and her voice took on that annoyingly soothing tone again. “Harry, she might need more than that.”

The pool of hope started to drain away and panic took over. “How much more? A month? Two?”

Hermione cast a look at Ron in a mute plea for help. He shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. She turned sad eyes back on Harry. “I don’t know. It could be more, but—”

“Will you go talk to her? Please? Please, go and see how she is? Find out when I can go back?”

She raised her eyebrows at Ron. He nodded and she pressed her lips together. Harry felt left out, jealous at the way they could communicate without words. Fresh panic surged through him at the thought that he might never have the chance to learn that language with Ginny.

“Listen, mate,” Ron said. “Why don’t you come with me to see Mum while Hermione goes to Hogwarts?” As Harry started to protest, he added quickly, “She’s going to chase you down eventually. You might as well get it over with.”

Harry turned hopeful eyes on Hermione. “You’ll go?”

“Yes, but please, Harry. Please don’t get your hopes too high. It sounds like she’s on the verge of a breakdown, if she’s not there already. This could take a while.”

“I can wait,” Harry said. “Whatever she needs, however long it takes, I can wait.”

***

“Since when did you become her keeper?”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t see how horrible it was.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’ve got to hover over her like a mother dragon.”

“Who else is going to do it? You want someone else trooping through here all hours of the day and night? Besides, Dean asked me to take care of her.”

“Dean! You’re taking care of her because _Dean_ asked you to? I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. But she’s not the devil you’re trying to make her out to be.”

“That _I’m_ trying to make her out to be?”

Ginny huddled under her blankets, listening without interest to her roommates’s escalating voices beyond the bed curtains. She honestly didn’t care about anything at the moment, least of all the standing of Lavender and Parvati’s friendship, but it was a relief when the door slammed and the room was quiet again.

After Harry had left, Dean, Luna and Lavender had found her in the Room of Requirement, curled on the couch, staring blankly into the fire. Failing to get an explanation about what had happened with Harry, they had practically carried her to the dormitory. Dean had to stop at the bottom of the stairs, but Luna and Lavender had got her into bed. Upon hearing what had happened in Hogsmeade, Professor McGonagall had made a rare trip to Gryffindor Tower to check on her. Ginny had begged off going to the hospital wing, but the headmistress had asked Madam Pomfrey to send a sleep potion via Winky.

That was two days ago. Maybe three. Maybe more. Ginny wasn’t sure and didn’t care. She hadn’t been out of bed except to visit the loo. Winky had brought meals (that had gone mostly untouched) and sleep potions (that had been downed like water) and had fretted nervously about her inability to properly care for Mister Harry Potter’s Miss Weezey—which, of course, only made Ginny draw further into herself.

When her mother arrived, Ginny was awake but tried to pretend otherwise. Mum would have none of it.

“Ginny, this is utter nonsense. I’ve come to take you home until it all blows over.”

Ginny spent all of her energy to put on a good face and argue her case. “I can’t come home, Mum. I’ve got to finish the term.”

“But, Ginny, dear—”

“I’m not coming home. I’ll be fine. I just need a couple of days…”

Professor McGonagall had stepped in and offered to keep her mother apprised of the situation. Mum had finally, albeit grudgingly, given in and left.

In reality, school was no more than a convenient excuse to Ginny—home was the last place she wanted to be. Mum would drive her absolutely mental. Of course, she knew she was nearly mental anyway, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being coddled the way her mother had done with George last summer.

Lavender had told her that Hermione and Fleur had each come several times over the past couple of days while she was sleeping. She was relieved to have missed them—especially Fleur. Apparently every wizarding publication in the world had carried exhaustive coverage of the entire fiasco, and her sister-in-law was no doubt working at damage control. Ginny had heard Parvati reading the headlines: _Potter Pounded by Paramour; Potter’s Girl Breaks Down in Hogsmeade; Is Potter’s Lover Pissed or Pregnant?_

Ginny felt no need to concern herself with any of it. And so for the past several days, she’d stayed right here, hiding from the world behind her bed curtains where she felt safe and didn’t have to think or bother about anything.

“Ginny? Are you awake?” Lavender tentatively parted the curtains, letting a blinding ray of sunlight into the cave-like darkness. “Ginny, you have to get up. McGonagall’s threatening to send you home if you don’t go to class today.”

Ginny rolled over with a groan and covered her head with her pillow to block the light.

“Come on, Ginny. At least get up and take a bath. You’ll feel better.”

Ginny lay still, hoping Lavender would go away and leave her to die in peace. She heard the door open.

“Oh, Merlin, I’m glad to see you,” Lavender said to whoever was walking across the room. “Maybe you can do something with her. She won’t listen to me.”

“Ginny! It’s time to get up!” Hermione’s voice was compassionate, but firm. “I’m skiving off work to come and see you. Get up and talk to me.”

Ginny burrowed further into her blankets. Their voices were muffled, but she could still understand them.

“See what I mean?” Lavender said.

“I’ll see to her. You go on to class. Thanks for looking after her.”

Lavender’s footsteps receded as Hermione flung back the bed curtains and snatched away the pillow. Ginny pulled the covers up to replace it. Hermione yanked those away too, until Ginny was left with only her arms to shield her eyes from the sunlight she hadn’t seen in days.

“Go away. Just leave me alone,” she whimpered.

“Come on. You have to get up. God, you stink. Let’s go.” Hermione pulled on Ginny’s arms until she stood unsteadily beside the bed—her weak legs nearly dropped her to the floor.

Hermione grabbed some clothes from Ginny’s trunk, then guided her through the deserted corridors (mercifully, classes were in session) to the Prefect's bath on the fifth floor. As Hermione adjusted the taps, Ginny sank in an exhausted heap onto the marble steps—then sputtered and flailed when she was unceremoniously pushed into the hot water still wearing her robe and night dress.

By the time they got back to the dormitory, Winky had come with what looked like enough breakfast for the whole of Gryffindor. Under Hermione’s watchful eye, Ginny forced down tea and a few bites of porridge and toast.

“I suppose if that’s all you can manage, it’ll have to do,” Hermione said, eyeing the tray after Ginny had put down her spoon and sunk back against the pillow.

Ginny had to admit that she did feel a bit better—physically, at least. Emotionally, she was as empty and listless as ever, as though her soul had been sucked out. She pleated the corner of the sheet between her fingers as Hermione watched her.

“The press shouldn’t have been able to get to you like that,” Hermione said. “The Aurors are investigating to find out what happened. They’ve talked to Lavender and Dean, but I think McGonagall and Pomfrey convinced them that they shouldn’t bother you.”

Ginny ducked her head and nodded her gratitude. She really didn’t want to discuss this. The whole fiasco had been her fault anyway. She should never have gone to Hogsmeade in the first place.

The silence between them stretched as Ginny concentrated on making the folds in the sheet perfectly even. She knew what was coming, but she refused to make it easy.

Hermione finally reached over and stilled Ginny’s hands. Her voice was gentle. “Tell me what happened. Harry’s an absolute mess and you’re even worse.”

Ginny’s heart lurched and the breath caught in her chest at the sound of his name. She looked out the window and struggled to draw in air. The tears came in an unexpected rush.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she whispered. “I love him so much, but I can’t sit around and wait for him to go out and get himself killed.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “He said he’d resign—if that’s what you want.”

Ginny looked at her and gave a bitter laugh. “You know as well as I do that he can’t stop. He can’t help it. It’s who he is.”

Hermione nodded. “I know. I think he knows it, too—but it means something that he’s willing to try, doesn’t it?”

Ginny swiped at her tears and sniffed. “But he lied to me! He promised he’d let me know if he might be going into danger, and then he said this wasn’t dangerous. He said it would be fine. He lied, Hermione, he lied!”

“I don’t think he meant it to be a lie, Ginny. I think he really believed—”

“No, he knew. That wasn’t the first time he’s tried to cover things up. You know he was attacked about a month ago, don’t you?” Hermione nodded and started to speak, but Ginny cut her off. “Did you know that he told me it was just a random act by two-bit criminals? I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now.” Ginny’s tears started afresh. “How can I go through this every time he walks out the door, not knowing if he’s ever coming back? What am I supposed to do? I can’t do it…”

“Ginny, you know he has a dangerous job. He just didn’t want to worry you. He thought it would be okay.” Hermione’s eyes were full of sympathy, but at Ginny’s huff of disbelief she frowned a bit. “You told him you need time. Do you think that’s all it is?”

Ginny blew her nose and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t know…”

“He wants to come and see you. Would you talk to him?”

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut and put her hand over her mouth to hold back a sob. She shook her head. “I can’t.” Her voice cracked and her body jerked violently as she tried to contain her emotions. “I can’t.”

Hermione moved the breakfast tray and wrapped her arms around Ginny as she finally broke down completely. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. Shhhh. It’s okay.”

Many moments and soothing words later, Ginny quieted and whispered against Hermione’s damp shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep going on like this.”

“No, you can’t,” Hermione said. “You’ve been through a lot this year. We need to find you a Mind Healer—”

“No!” Hermione stopped in shock as Ginny pulled sharply away, terror filling her voice. “No, I can’t. The press will find out and they’ll come after me again and I can’t do that again... please... I can’t—”

Hermione held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Ginny! Calm down! We won’t do anything yet, just calm down.”

Ginny sagged in relief. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do that again…”

“I know,” Hermione said, taking Ginny’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“I just need some time. Please, just give me a little time.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, worry and compassion filling her eyes as she studied Ginny. She finally nodded. “Alright. We’ll give you some time.”

“But what about Harry?” Ginny fought to hold back the tears again.

“You concentrate on getting yourself back together. I’ll talk to Harry.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it. Just get better, then you can work out what to do.”

***

Harry had meant it when he’d told Hermione he would wait for Ginny, no matter how long it took. But patience wasn’t in his nature. When something was wrong and he just _knew_ he could fix it, he became jittery with the need to act. He was so edgy now he was driving everyone around him spare.

“Potter, sit down!” Robards roared with a glare. “You get out of that chair again and I’m going to bind you to it.”

Harry slouched back into his chair and tried to sit still as the weekly meeting continued. Robards had pulled together a task force to find Dolohov and round up the Dark wizards who had escaped during the raid. Because of his informant, Harry had been included in spite of his trainee status, although Robards mostly ignored him. Harry felt as useful as he did at Ministry dinners—more like part of the furniture than member of the team. And to add to his frustration, the meetings consisted mostly of reports from the field agents and much speculation by the research team about where to look next. They appeared to be making no progress whatsoever.

As the conversation around him droned on, Harry felt himself sliding to the other end of his emotional spectrum. Since Ginny had sent him away, he’d alternated between agitated frustration and debilitating despair. Ron had got him through that first evening, escorting him to the Burrow just long enough to prove to Mrs. Weasley that he was alive and relatively unharmed. Then they’d contacted Fleur to prepare her for the next day’s press coverage. They’d gone back to the flat to wait for Hermione, but she was already there with the news that Ginny had taken a sleeping potion and wouldn’t be awake until the next day. Harry had nearly gone around the twist with worry until Hermione had made him drink his own sleep draught and tucked him in on the couch in her sitting room. They’d refused to let him leave until it was time for his Monday morning debriefing with Robards.

Hermione hadn’t been able to talk to Ginny until Tuesday—the news hadn’t been good.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Hermione’s sad eyes had sent his stomach plummeting. “She’s not well.”

“Not well? What does that mean?”

Hermione frowned, seeming to choose her words carefully. “She’s still rather, erm… upset.”

“All the more reason for me to go see her. We need to talk. I’ve got to—”

“No, Harry. She’s not ready. If you go now, you’ll only make matters worse. You might just push her over the edge.”

Harry fought his rising panic. “Over the edge? Is it that bad? Then we need to get her some help… a Mind Healer or St.—”

“I suggested that. She won’t go. She’s terrified that the press will find out and, after what happened in Hogsmeade, I think it’s best not to push the issue right now.”

Harry sat down hard on the chair behind him and dropped his head into his hands. “This is all my fault.”

“No!” Hermione dropped into the chair next to him and took his hand. “Well, it’s not _all_ your fault. Think about what she’s been through in the past year, Harry. She’s been struggling to hold herself together for a long time. I think you going missing was the final straw. ”

Harry raised his head and forced his voice through his rapidly closing throat. “Then what do I do? I need to help. I have to fix this.”

“Just give her some time, Harry. She’s asked for time. Just give it to her.”

And so he’d reluctantly agreed.

He’d pinned his hopes on being able to go back to Hogwarts on Saturday and make everything right again, but after talking to Hermione, his mood had taken a nosedive. The week had gone downhill from there.

During his Wednesday visit with Teddy, Harry had been quiet and distracted. Teddy had picked up on Harry’s mood and become irritable and fussy. At a loss about what to do, Harry panicked, which had made Teddy even more fretful. By the time Andromeda had come home (early, much to Harry’s relief), Teddy had been wailing at the top of his lungs and Harry had been very close to joining him. She had easily quieted the baby and tucked him into his cot, making Harry feel even more useless, even though he was glad to know that he hadn’t done any permanent damage.

During the day, Harry had gone through the motions of going to classes and training sessions and meetings, but his head and heart weren’t in them. Summers was the only one who dared to say anything about it.

“All right, there, Potter?” Summers asked after their Friday morning physical training class.

“What do you think?” Harry asked through clenched teeth as he slammed his things into his locker.

“I think you need to get your mind off of things. Get royally pissed. Pull a bird and get laid. Come out with us tonight. We’ll show you how to forget your troubles.”

“Oh, yeah. Having that splashed all over the papers is _really_ going to ease my mind,” Harry said irritably.

“Ah, come on, Potter. Give me a little credit. I know a great private club. Very discreet. And if you’re still worried, I know where we can nick a bit of Polyjuice. No one ever has to know you were there.”

Harry had rested his forehead against the cool steel of his locker and closed his eyes. With the weekend stretching before him, long and empty, the chance to join the group and escape from his own mind for a while should have been tempting. But he just didn’t have it in him to make the effort. Summers had been right about one thing, though, and, for that, Harry wouldn’t have to make much effort at all.

“Thanks,” he’d told Summers as he gathered his books and parchment for his next class. “But I think I’ll just stay home.”

When he’d got back to Grimmauld Place that night, he had dropped his cloak inside the front door, sealed off the Floo, grabbed two bottles of Firewhiskey from the kitchen cupboard, and ordered Kreacher to stand guard outside his bedroom and not let anyone in until Monday morning. Even with a Silencing Charm on the door, he’d heard a couple of skirmishes in the corridor before he had passed out the first time. The rest of the weekend had slipped by in an alcoholic haze. At some point, he had come to and stumbled across the hall into the bathroom. Hermione and Kreacher were staring each other down on the stairs. Harry left the bathroom door open as he took his piss, ignoring her pleas to come and stay with her and Ron, then slammed the bedroom door on her and sank back into oblivion. Fleur had rousted him on Monday morning with her secret-family-recipe hangover potion. He’d been only half an hour late to class and not the least concerned about the dressing down he’d got from the instructor.

This week had proved to be as long and frustrating as the last. Harry fidgeted in his chair, anxious for the meeting to be over but not really looking forward to going home, either. Sometimes he could get a few hours of sleep by pretending that it was a normal week and that on Saturday he’d be going to Hogwarts just like always. But most nights the fantasy failed him and he would spend long hours staring blindly into the fire, thinking about those wonderful hours in the Room of Requirement and wishing for a Time Turner.

The lack of sleep and sense of helplessness were making him impossible to live with, although, bless them, Ron and Hermione tried. Fleur and Kreacher had also appointed themselves his keepers and did their best to make him eat and stick to a normal schedule during the week. He was surprised that Fleur would bother with him; she was furious that he refused to meet with any of the press to help manage the crisis.

“Right. Set up a press conference so I can hex the lot of them all at once,” he’d growled at her. “As far as I’m concerned any reporter or photographer that crosses my path is fair game.”

In the end, he’d told her to release any bloody statement she wanted. He was washing his hands of them.

The only thing that was keeping him in touch with sanity was the fact that Ginny still had his ring. As long as she kept it, he could hope that all was not lost, that one day he’d have a chance to reclaim his heart’s desire and all would be well.

***

Ginny's friends were conspiring against her.

The first week, she had allowed them to bully her about because she really hadn’t had it in her to care. Lavender had hauled her out of bed every morning and made her bathe and get dressed. Dean dragged her to the Great Hall and badgered her to eat. Neville escorted her to their office for the daily report collection and weekly Prefect meeting. Luna joined them in herding her to classes and hounding her to do homework.

When the weekend came, all she wanted was to crawl back into her cave and hide from the world. But they surrounded her nearly every moment of the day and a good part of the night, and she didn’t have the strength to fight them.

As they coerced her to eat and rest and interact with the world, she began to come out of herself a bit and her physical strength returned…along with her temper. She just didn’t see the point; none of it really mattered. They might make her go through the motions of attending class and studying—and living—but they couldn’t force her mind to focus or her heart to heal.

And they couldn’t make the voices in her head go away—the ones that sounded so much like echoes of Tom Riddle: _Such a silly, stupid little girl… weak and worthless… damaged goods… can’t do anything right… rubbish at classes… pathetic at being Head Girl… can’t play Quidditch worth shite… You’re supposed to be a brave Gryffindor, but you can’t be strong enough for the man you’re supposed to love… and now you’ve hurt him beyond repair… Why should he love you? Why should anyone love you after what you’ve done?_

She’d given up fighting the voices. They were right. She was weak and worthless. Harry’s disappearance and the encounter with the press had proven that.

Two weeks—two agonizingly long and lonely weeks had passed since all of her hopes and dreams had evaporated on Hogsmeade weekend. And they were just a sample of the life that now stretched before her like an infinite void. She’d built her whole world around Harry. Now that she knew she couldn’t be what he needed, that she had to let him go, she didn’t know how to move forward. She didn’t have the will to find out.

But she allowed her friends to think that they were helping.

Friday had rolled around again—the day before another endless, empty weekend. She sat in Muggle Studies class doodling random shapes on the parchment in front of her. Any other time, she would have been fascinated by Professor Macintosh’s lecture on the various ways Muggles had devised to fly. Why would anyone push themselves off of a cliff while sitting on a cloth-covered frame or get into a basket that blew fire into a big cloth bag… with absolutely no way to control them? And Muggles thought wizards were insane.

But then the professor had shifted into a less interesting discussion of the various types of aeroplanes (that looked like nothing more than Dad’s flying car with boards stuck out either side) and Ginny’s mind had begun to drift. All of the talk about flying reminded her of the last time she’d flown and what a disaster that had been. Well, the Quidditch match had been a disaster, the flying hadn’t—or what had come after.

Idly twisting her invisible ring, she squinted her eyes to catch the faint sparkles that danced over it if you knew what to look for. She savored the ache that flared in her chest. It was her punishment, her payment for being weak—for the pain she knew she’d inflicted on Harry and for not having the strength to make things right. She should probably return his ring. It had been his mother’s and she was sure he’d want it back. As the thought brought the all too familiar sting of tears, she pressed hard on her eyes with the heels of her hands. The last thing she needed was to start crying in the middle of class.

Once she had herself somewhat under control (although she thought her eyes were probably swollen and red and she knew her nose was running), she propped her temple on her fist to gaze out the window at the cold gray day beyond. The clouds were low and dense, the color of polished silver. A movement over the forest (perhaps a Thestral?) brought her thoughts back to flying. She missed it—that wonderful, weightless feeling, the incredible freedom from the burdens she carried on the ground.

“Ginny, come on. It’s time to go.” Lavender’s voice jerked her from her reverie.

Shoving her things into her bag with a sigh, Ginny wearily followed Lavender out of the door. They had climbed one flight of stairs, headed to Charms class on the third floor, when Lavender stopped on the landing and rifled through her bag.

“Oh, bugger it! I left my essay in the dormitory.” She scanned the crowded staircase, then looked at Ginny uncertainly. “I don’t see Seamus or Dean. Can you get to class okay while I run upstairs?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. This was getting ridiculous. “I think I can manage.”

Lavender didn’t appear convinced and stood on tiptoe to look about once more before giving a frustrated growl. She put a hand on Ginny’s arm and gave her a worried look. “You’ll go straight to class, right? Dean and Seamus will be there and I’ll be along in a minute.”

When all she got was another eye-roll, Lavender looked around once more for another of Ginny’s handlers, then checked her watch, shook her head in exasperation, and dashed up the stairs.

Until that moment, Ginny hadn’t realized that she’d been waiting for just such an opportunity. For the first time in more than a week, she was alone and could do whatever she wanted. And right this minute she wanted—no, she _needed_ —to fly. She needed it as much as she needed to breathe. And she needed it _now_.

Ginny watched until Lavender was out of sight, then turned and walked calmly down the stairs. Once she was out the front doors of the castle, she dropped her bag in the bushes and hurried down the path to the broom shed next to the Quidditch pitch. She had to get away before someone stopped her. Her broom was still in the Room of Requirement (where it would probably stay forever if she had to be the one to get it), so she grabbed one of the new school brooms and kicked off.

The icy wind stung her cheeks and made her eyes water as it whipped her hair and cloak behind her. She wasn’t dressed for flying in this weather—her hands were soon frozen to the handle and she couldn’t feel her feet—but she hadn’t felt this alive in days.

Giving herself over to the sheer joy of soaring through the air, she circled the pitch, climbing and diving and swooping and floating, round and round until she nearly felt free of the worries that had been hanging around her neck like an anchor.

She had no idea how long she’d been in the air when Dean and Seamus ran onto the pitch calling her name, but she wasn’t ready to come down yet, even though she was nearly frozen through. Pretending not to hear, she began a lazy spiral that took her higher and higher, out of earshot, away from anyone who would bring her back to earth.

She didn’t want to go back. She wasn’t ready to face the emptiness again. They’d tried so hard to help, to pull her back into existence, but it was no use. The incident with Greyback had broken her, taken away her strength, her confidence. She was failing her classes, she had few friends, she was as terrified of the press as she was of any Death Eater, and she had sent Harry away. Life had no meaning; she had no reason to keep going. She wanted to stay here, where it was peaceful and she didn’t have to think or keep up an act just to make everyone feel better. The silence around her was comforting. No one could touch her here. No one could pester her to eat or to study or to think about things that were no longer important.

She slowed to a stop and looked around, amazed at the world beneath her. The crowd on the pitch was growing, but they were tiny specks, like ants scurrying around their castle-shaped hill. The Astronomy Tower was off in the distance, but she had to look down to see the top of it. The Forbidden Forest looked like the weeds in Mum’s garden and, beyond the lake, she could see smoke rising from the toy chimneys of Hogsmeade.

As the low-hanging clouds swirled around her head, frozen crystals formed on her eyelashes and made her broom handle slick. She shivered and pulled out her wand to cast drying and warming charms, but as she waved it, the slender rod slipped through her numb fingers and tumbled quickly out of sight. Sitting back on her broom, she thoughtfully watched it go.

She was higher than Harry had been when the Dementors had forced him from his broom her second year, higher than Dumbledore when he’d fallen from the Astronomy Tower her fifth. She idly wondered what it felt like to fall from such a height. Did it hurt when you hit the ground, or did the impact wipe away all the pain? Dumbledore had kept Harry from hitting the ground full-force, but he’d still been unconscious for a while afterward. Of course, that could’ve been from the Dementor attack, but maybe passing out from fear on the way down was how your body protected you from—

“Ginny?”

Dean had spoken softly, but it startled her anyway and she jolted. When he reached out to steady her, she swerved away from him.

“Ginny, come down so we can talk.”

“Go away, Dean,” she said, wearily heaving her damp hair out of her face.

“You don’t have to do this. Please come down.”

She ignored the quiver in his voice. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just thinking.”

“Well, come down and think. Please…”

She studied him blankly, then looked over the horizon. “No, I can think better up here without everyone making a fuss over me all of the time.”

“We don’t mean to make a fuss. We just want to help. We just want you back. _I_ want you back.”

She looked at him for a moment before closing her eyes and dropping her head. She’d hurt him so much—just another example of her failure. “I know you mean well, but I just don’t see the point. Nothing matters anymore.”

“Ginny, don’t say that. What would your family say? Your mum and dad? Your brothers? You couldn’t do that to them, could you?”

She looked up, tendrils of hair sticking to her cheeks, the moisture in her eyes no longer coming only from the clouds.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody else, but I need—” She drew a shuddering breath and choked on the knot in her throat.

“Need what?” Dean was starting to sound panicked. “Tell me. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

She put a hand to her mouth, unable to speak. He tried to ease a bit closer but she sidled away.

“I’ll... do you... do you want me to get Potter? I’ll put a body bind on him and—”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. Ginny knew what it must have cost him to say that. He’d been angry and protective since Hogsmeade, thinking that Harry had left her for Daphne. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to correct the notion or explain why she’d sent Harry away. She had mucked up so many lives, caused so much pain. When her tears started in earnest, she moved her hand to her eyes.

“Ginny, don’t cry.” His voice was a bit closer than it had been. “Let’s go down. Please...”

She shook her head and lifted her other hand to her face, holding her broom steady with only her knees as she convulsed with heaving sobs. “I don’t want to go back. I can’t do it anymore.”

"It's okay. You don't have to do anything." He was right next to her now, but she was too caught up in her emotions to think what that might mean.

When his arm went around her waist, she jerked up and shoved at him. “Get away!”

Time slowed to a crawl as he lost his grip. She could see every detail of the horror on his face—eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a scream she couldn’t hear. He made a frantic grab for her.

The wind was howling in her ears and the world was a blur as she twisted and tumbled, faster and faster toward the ground. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. In fact, she felt surprisingly peaceful. Fate had stepped in; soon she wouldn't have to think or hurt anymore. The rushing air forced her breath back into her lungs and she couldn’t exhale to get another.

As the darkness closed in, her final thought was, “ _Yes, you do pass out before you hit the ground.”_


	18. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry realizes what he's lost and tries to get it back.

“I can’t believe they’re letting her off. Harry, you can do something, can’t you?”

“Ron, Harry wouldn’t even be here—none of us would—if she hadn’t lied to Voldemort for him.”

“Oh, so you think that makes up for all the evil things she and her family did? That she should just get off scot-free?”

“I didn’t say she was innocent. I said I can understand why Harry wouldn’t intervene.”

“Well, I hope they’re not planning to let the ferret off, too. _I’ll_ talk to the Minister about that, if Harry won’t.”

Harry ignored Ron and Hermione’s bickering and sullenly played with his shepherd’s pie, glad that he could hide his satisfaction about Narcissa Malfoy’s release behind his irritation at them. After his last class on Friday afternoon, they had ambushed him in the Ministry atrium and dragged him off to a Muggle restaurant. He was pretty sure they intended to hold him hostage for the next two days to keep him from coping with this weekend the way he had dealt with the last one. He knew they meant well, but he was already working out his escape.

“Harry, don’t be angry with us,” Hermione said. “We just don’t like to see you so miserable.”

Harry spared her a glare. “So don’t watch. Let me go home and be miserable by myself.”

“Harry—”

But whatever Hermione was going to say got lost as the restaurant broke into wild confusion. Harry jumped to his feet and drew his wand, keeping it close to his side, but ready. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the chaos was due to a tiny bird that had flown in when someone opened the door.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Ron muttered. “That’s Pig.”

Harry took a second look and realized that the little owl was headed straight for them. In a single move, he cast a Confundus Charm on everyone around them, then snatched the bird from the air like a Snitch and handed him to Ron. Hermione freed the note from Pig’s leg while Ron held the tiny owl under the table and fed him some sausage. Once Pig was full and drowsy, Ron slipped the bird into his pocket.

“It’s from George,” Ron said as he opened the note. “This better be important to risk being seen by Muggles.”

“Well, he didn’t know we were coming here, did he?” Hermione asked. But Ron appeared not to hear as he went pale at what he read, then quickly rolled the parchment back up and frowned at it.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

Startled, Ron looked up. “Huh? Uh, nothing.” Ears blazing, he gave Hermione one of those looks they often shared. “Well, um, it’s actually—um, I messed up an order and, um, he wants me to come right now to set it straight. Since he’s, um, starting to show more, er, interest in the shop, you know, he’s getting to be a real arse about doing things the way he wants them done. It’s dead annoying, really, after I’ve been running things all this time.”

Harry knew that Ron was lying and that Hermione knew it, too, but she didn’t call him on it as she usually did. Something odd was going on and Harry meant to get to the bottom of it. But as he started to ask what the note really said, Ron stood and cut him off.

“Listen, why don’t you two finish up here and I’ll meet you back at the flat after I take care of this? Shouldn’t take long.” When he bent down to kiss Hermione on the cheek, he whispered something in her ear and tucked the note into her hand. Harry shook his head in wonder. Did they really think he was that stupid?

Once Ron was out the door, Harry cocked an eyebrow at Hermione and held out his hand. The note slipped through her fingers, but she grabbed it before it got away.

“Harry! We’re in a Muggle pub!” she hissed as she put it into her bag.

“Yeah and I just cast a Confundus Charm over everyone within spitting distance so they wouldn’t see me catch an owl. What does the note say, Hermione? I know Ron was lying. It’s something to do with Ginny, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what it says. I haven’t read it yet.”

“So read it.”

“No, not here.”

“Then let’s go.”

“I’m not through eating.”

“I am. I guess I’ll go find Ron and ask him myself.”

“Harry, you wouldn’t go off and leave me in Muggle London all alone, would you?” He could swear she was batting her eyelashes at him.

“Hermione, you grew up here. You know more about this city than I do. And besides, no Muggle would stand a chance against you.”

She turned pleading eyes on him and pursed her lips into a pout. “Please don’t go, Harry. Just give me a few minutes, then we’ll go back to the flat and wait for Ron.”

She was being so un-Hermione-ish and so obvious in her efforts to distract him, Harry couldn’t help being a bit amused. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he slouched back in his chair. “That stuff doesn’t work on me, you know. Especially not from you. It’s like flirting with my sister.”

She smirked at him as she took a bite of her salad.

Harry sighed heavily. “What did he say?”

She cocked an eyebrow and gave him a saucy grin. “I can’t repeat it. Not to you.”

He snorted. “Pull the other one, Hermione. If he’d said something like that, you would’ve started twirling your hair. He said something about me, didn’t he?”

Her jaw fell open and her eyes widened. “What do you mean I would’ve started twirling my hair?”

“It’s what you do when he says stuff like that to you.”

Her expression turned from surprise to outrage. “Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to. I worked it out all by myself,” Harry said with an offended tone. “I’m being trained to notice things, remember? Besides, you’ve been doing it since right after the war. It’s sort of hard to miss.”

Her face went crimson and she slammed her fork down. “Let’s go, then. I’m finished.”

Harry grinned and snatched the bill off the table before she could get to it.

“I was going to get that,” Hermione said tightly. “We were the ones who brought you. We don’t expect you to pay every time.”

He shrugged and gestured for her to precede him to the door. “I can afford it.”

With an exasperated huff, she moved past him. As they wound their way through the tables and stopped at the till, Harry didn’t once hear his name whispered or see anyone do a double take at his scar, although he did see a couple of blokes cast admiring glances at Hermione—but only because they thought she was attractive, not because they knew who she was. In a place like this, he and Hermione looked like any other young couple out for the evening. Anonymity was such a relief.

Harry had almost begun to relax and feel a bit of gratitude to Ron and Hermione for giving up their precious weekend together to spend time with him. Almost. He was still peeved about the note and the secret they seemed to be keeping from him, but he could appreciate that they cared enough to try to cheer him up. He gave Hermione a bit of a smile as he opened the door for her—he was sure it didn’t fool her much, but he thought it wasn’t too bad, given the circumstances. She smiled back and stepped out the door. With the half-smile still on his lips, he followed and was immediately blinded by three flashes of light.

He had pushed Hermione out of the way and drawn his wand before the shouting voices penetrated his confusion:

“— what do you think of Ginny Weasley’s attempted suicide?”

“—because you took up with Daphne Darling?”

“—you and Hermione together now?”

The hex that rose in his throat was lost as Hermione grabbed him and he felt his body being squeezed from all sides. Within seconds he found himself standing in her garden.

“Come on, Harry. Get inside. They’ll be right behind us. Bollocks! I hope none of the Muggles saw that,” Hermione said, pulling Harry up the path.

Allowing her to push him into the flat, he was unable to think past the first words he’d heard outside the restaurant: _Ginny Weasley’s attempted suicide_.

Once inside, he wheeled on Hermione, suddenly furious. “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID RON SAY? WHAT’S HAPPENED TO GINNY?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione was clearly distressed, her face white and breath coming in ragged gasps as she dug frantically for the note in her bag. “He asked me to keep you busy while he went to the Burrow. He didn’t say why.”

When she drew it out, Harry snatched it before she could unroll it. All of the air left his chest and his heart seemed to stop as he read it.

_Ron,_

_Ginny fell off her broom. Mum and Dad are bringing her home. Come as soon as you can._

_George_

_PS — Don’t bring Harry._

 

Harry drew in an angry breath. “What does he mean, don’t bring me? Why wouldn’t—you don’t think—” He dropped into the chair next to him as his legs gave way when George’s implication hit. “Oh, God, no! She didn’t—I need to go—” He jumped to his feet.

“No! No, I’m sure she didn’t.” Hermione was pale as a ghost, but she pushed Harry back into his chair and continued in a tone that brooked no argument. “We need to wait for Ron. He said he’d meet us here. We need to know what’s going on before we go barging into a family meeting.”

“Barging in?” Harry jumped back up, his anger returning full force. “Haven’t they always said we’re family? Why would we be barging in? Shouldn’t they have invited us?”

Hermione wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Harry, it’s not—”

Harry took a step back. “It’s me, isn’t it? Whatever happened, they blame me, don’t they?”

“No, Harry. No one blames you—”

“The hell, they don’t! First Fred and now Ginny. I’m sure they’re starting to regret the day they ever laid eyes on me.”

“Stop it!” Hermione grabbed his shoulders and gave him a hard shake. “Just stop! You don’t even know what happened. Just... just sit down and wait for Ron and quit letting your imagination run away—”

Harry threw off her hands and shook the note in her face. “Imagination! It’s not imagination, Hermione. They don’t want me there and I reckon I know why.”

“Harry, please just calm down—”

“HOW THE BLOODY HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO CALM DOWN? Even the effin’ press knows more about this than I do. If nobody blames me, why the hell aren’t they telling me anything?”

“Ron’s coming. He had to go and find out what’s going on before he can tell you. Maybe it was just an accident. Please don’t get so worked up until we know for sure.”

Harry ran his hand through his hair and yanked on it, growling in frustration as he paced frantically around Hermione’s small kitchen. He couldn’t blame the Weasleys for not wanting him around. What if Ginny _had_ tried to hurt herself (he couldn’t even _think_ the word “suicide”) and he was to blame? He needed desperately to see her, to see for himself that she was okay and try to talk sense into her. They could make it work. If she’d just let him try, he knew he could make it work.

He stopped and stared at Hermione. He suddenly knew what he had to do. “I’m quitting. Monday morning, I’m handing Robards my resignation. In fact, I’m not waiting for Monday. I’m going now.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and she grabbed his arm. “Harry, no. Don’t make any rash decisions right now. Just wait—”

Harry shook her off and backed out of reach. “Wait for what? I can’t function like this. How can I be an Auror like this? What’s the point of saving the world if I can’t help the one person I love more than anyone else?”

“Harry, please don’t—oh, thank God,” Hermione whispered in relief as the Floo flared and Ron stepped out.

Ron looked from Harry to Hermione and back again. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” Harry spat, flinging the note at Ron.

Ron caught it against his chest and cast a questioning look at Hermione. She scrunched her brows together and shook her head slightly.

“WOULD YOU TWO STOP THAT AND TALK TO ME?” Harry was ready to throttle the information out of Ron. “What happened to Ginny? Why can’t I go see her?”

Ron gestured toward the table. “Sit down, mate.”

Harry glared threateningly at him before flinging himself into a chair. Ron and Hermione came more slowly; Harry was sure they were exchanging meaningful looks behind his back, if not outright words.

Once they were settled at the table, Ron fidgeted with the note and cleared his throat. “Ginny’s home. She’s—erm—asleep. Dad said McGonagall told him it was an accident, but—” He stopped and gave Hermione a pleading look. She nodded at him to continue.

Harry was ready to rip Ron’s tongue out. He struggled for control. “But what?”

Ron took a deep breath. “Well, she skived off class to go flying. When Dean and Seamus found her and asked her to come down, she just flew higher—a lot higher. Way above the Astronomy Tower. When her wand landed on the Quidditch pitch, Dean went up to get her.”

Harry flinched and turned to look into the fire, jaw muscles flexing. Always Dean bloody Thomas. Dean was _always_ there when Ginny needed help. And Harry never was.

Ron cleared his throat again. “He... he said she wouldn’t come down, that she kept saying she had no reason to go on. When she started crying and took her hands off her broom... he... he tried to grab her. That’s when she fell.”

Harry stood abruptly, knocking his chair over, and turned his back to them as he braced his arms against the garden door and stared out the window, drawing in great gasps of air, struggling for control. _She kept saying she had no reason to go on._ The words drove a dagger into his gut. Unable to handle the thought now, he channeled his anger and frustration at Dean. “So it’s his fault. He made her fall.”

“No.” Ron’s voice was flat. “He had her, but she fought him, pushed him away. McGonagall and Flitwick cast charms to slow her down, but she was still unconscious by the time she hit the ground.”

Harry drew several breaths to steady himself. “So, she’s all right, then?”

Several beats of silence passed (they were probably talking with their eyes again) before Ron answered quietly, “Physically. Madam Pomfrey said there’s no reason why she should still be unconscious. That it’s likely some sort of defense mechanism. Her body’s way of protecting her mind... or something like that.”

The ticking clock was the only sound in the room as Harry digested Ron’s words. Why would her body need to protect her mind, if not for him?  He couldn’t just stand here any longer.

“I have to see her. I’m going,” Harry said as he moved toward the fireplace. Ron stood to block his path.

“Not a good idea, mate.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, she’s unconscious—she won’t even know you’re there.”

“I don’t care. I need to be there when she wakes up.” When Ron didn’t move, Harry narrowed his eyes. “And? What else?”

Ron straightened. He was taller and broader than Harry, but Harry had no qualms about taking him on if necessary.

“It’s George. He said he won’t let you near her until _she_ says it’s all right.”

Harry gave a humorless laugh. “I can take George with one arm behind my back.”

“Yeah, but if you challenge George, then Bill and Charlie and maybe even Percy will get into it... and, well, I’ll have to join them. You’re my best mate, but I can’t let you hurt my family.” Ron gave him a pleading look. “Please, Harry. Please don’t make me choose.”

Family comes first. Ron had said that to him just a couple of weeks ago. And given the choice between Ginny and Harry, the Weasleys would choose Ginny... as they should. The sudden realization of what losing Ginny meant washed over him like a bucket of ice water. He hadn’t lost just _her_ —he’d lost the whole family…the only real family he’d ever known.

Harry took a step back. “I... I wouldn’t—” Harry closed his eyes against the tingle that had started behind the lids. He’d really mucked up, worse than he could ever have imagined possible. “I... I need to go—”

“Harry, wait—”

He ignored Hermione as he wrenched open the back door and bolted for the Apparition area. A camera flash and Hermione calling his name were the last things he remembered as he stepped and turned.

***

Ginny had always thought of Hell as a personal place, populated with Dementors and Boggarts, where you forever lived out your worst fears. She’d never thought of Heaven as being personal, too, where your most wonderful fantasies came true.

She gazed at the Holyhead Harpies poster on the wall at the foot of her bed and realized she must’ve been wrong. How else could she be back in the Room of Requirement—the version of it that looked like her room and was the scene of the most perfect part of her life? If she turned her head and found Harry lying next to her, did that mean that he’d died, too, or just that her version of heaven included a realistic illusion of him? Tentatively, she moved her hand beneath the covers to feel the space next to her. Empty. Her heart plummeted. Heaven wasn’t quite so perfect after all.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red and turned to see who was with her. Head dropped into his hands, elbows on his knees, the familiar sight of her brother startled and warmed her at the same time. She should’ve known he’d be here waiting for her.

“Fred?”

The head jerked up. “Ginny. Oh, thank Merlin, you’re awake.” He shifted to sit on the bed and took her hand. Her heart jolted again in surprise and confusion. His ear was missing.

The memory of what had happened—and why—settled over her like a suffocating quilt.

“George.” Her disappointment was evident. “I’m alive, then.”

The toneless words brought a look of distress to George’s face. “You don’t seem happy about it.”

“I just didn’t think—how could—” Ginny sighed and looked out the window at the overcast sky beyond.

“McGonagall and Flitwick were there,” he explained quietly.

She looked around. “So, I’m home, then.”

“Yeah. McGonagall wanted to send you to St. Mungo’s, but Mum wouldn’t have it. She won out when Fleur mentioned that the press would be buzzing round.”

Ginny nodded and closed her eyes, only half listening to George’s explanation. She couldn’t take the sight of this room any longer. The memories of her time with Harry in “her” Room of Requirement were beginning to close in on her. How could she stay here, remembering, when she’d turned her whole world upside down and pushed it all away? She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, then braced herself as the room spun.

George grabbed her shoulder, his voice tensing in panic. “Wait a minute. You shouldn’t be up. Where are you going?”

“I have to get out of here. I can’t stay in this room.”

“But, Ginny, it’s your—”

“I have to get out!” Her voice rose shrilly as she jerked away from him. Pushing herself off the bed, she collapsed into a heap when her legs gave out.

George lifted her into his arms and moved to put her back into the bed.

“No!” she screamed, beating against his shoulders. “Get me out of here. I can’t stay in here. Get me out!”

“Ginny—where—why?” George looked baffled as she continued to sob and struggle. “Okay, okay, I’ll get you out. Where do you want to go?’’

The door burst open and their mother flew in, ready to do battle. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

“She doesn’t want to stay in here,” George explained over Ginny’s sobs.

“Well, take her down to the sitting room and—”

“No! Not there. Please not there, either,” Ginny cried, panic rising in her voice. “The kitchen, take me to the kitchen. Please…”

George exchanged a worried look with his mother, but nodded and headed down the stairs. Ginny began to breathe again and allowed the two of them to settle her before the fire in a squashy armchair transfigured from one of the dining chairs. George cast a warming charm on a blanket to tuck around her and Mum pressed a cup of tea into her hands. She cradled the cup, but instead of drinking, curled her legs under her and laid her head against the arm of the chair, closing her eyes as she waited for the inevitable.

“Ginny, dear, what happened?” Mum’s voice was gentle, but made it clear she wanted an answer.

Ginny loved her mother dearly, but she wasn’t up to an interrogation right now. She didn’t open her eyes and her voice betrayed her irritation. “I just wanted to go flying, Mum.”

The gentle tone disappeared. “You just wanted to go flying? Is that all you can say? You were supposed to be in class and you were too high and—”

“Mum.” As George interrupted the momentum of her mother’s rant, Ginny breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Let her rest. We can talk about all of this later.”

“But, George, she’s—”

“ _Later_ , Mum.” Ginny could tell that George had moved to stand protectively between her and her mother.

With a huff and a stream of muttered complaints, Ginny heard her mother’s angry footsteps leave the room. She opened one eye to find George sitting next to her, staring into the fire.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“No worries,” he said with a crooked smile. “I owe you for last summer. But she means well, you know?”

“I know.” Ginny tipped the corners of her mouth up. They both knew it wasn’t a real smile, but he didn’t push, just settled back into his chair to watch the flames dance. Content to sit in the silence, Ginny lost track of the time. Eventually she turned to watch George. He seemed unaware of her gaze as she admired the strength and confidence in his face—strength and confidence that hadn’t been there six months ago. Yes, she still saw the haunted sadness that she thought would probably always be there, but he had changed while she’d been away. She could see more of the old George than she’d seen since the war.

“How do you—?” She stopped, unable voice what she wanted to know.

He didn’t seem surprised or confused by her question. He just continued to stare into the fire as he answered. “Minute by minute. You just keep going from one minute to the next until, before you know it, a whole day has gone by, then a week, then a month. And after a while, you begin to remember how to breathe again. And the memories stop taking up every minute of every day. And you start to feel like you might be able to start living again…one day.”

She nodded and they lapsed into silence again for a while. When George leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees and hold his head in his hands, looking as though he was sinking back into his grief for Fred, Ginny felt a sudden pang at the realization of how much she must have hurt her family. She knew she owed them an explanation, but she just couldn’t imagine talking to her parents about everything that had happened this autumn. How could they possibly understand?

But she needed George to understand.

“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying—” The knot in her throat blocked the rest of the words and she blinked rapidly as she looked into the fire.

He covered her hand with his and gave her a gentle look. “I know. You don’t have to talk about it now, but when you’re ready, you let me know.”

***

Harry’s head hurt. He’d spent Friday night and most of Saturday walking the streets of London, trying to work out how things had got to this point. Less than a month ago his world had been as close to perfect as it had ever been—Voldemort was gone, he was training for his dream job, and Ginny loved him. Life was normal. He couldn’t have asked for more.

But, now, Ginny was gone and his dream job had become a nightmare. He had been round and round in his head trying to make sense of what had happened. Ginny had said she needed time, but time for what? To get used to his being an Auror? If that was the only thing standing between them, he would quit without question. But she didn’t seem to want that, either. And why wouldn’t she talk to him? There had to be more to it.

He had been as thick as a brick not to notice that she was so miserable. Or else she was an excellent actress. Or maybe a bit of both. Still, he’d been down that same road and should have recognized the signs. But he’d been too consumed by the physical side of their relationship and hadn’t paid proper attention to Ginny’s state of mind until Fleur and Hermione had pointed out the obvious. He saw her more often than anyone else in the family—how could he _not_ have noticed? But didn’t she say in her letter after their row that she was happiest on the weekends when he was there? Maybe she _had_ been hiding it from him. Or maybe things were worse when he wasn’t around to see.

But after they’d become intimate, she’d seemed so much better. She _had_ wanted it, hadn’t she? He hadn’t pushed her further than she wanted to go, had he? No, she’d been prepared, had taken precautions that he hadn’t even thought of. And she’d definitely been happier, more like her old self once they’d got past that point. Unless she just hadn’t told him how she was feeling when he wasn’t there. Were things really that bad during the week?

And if they were, his disappearance and the incident in Hogsmeade had apparently sent her over the edge. So it was _his_ fault she had got to the point that she…

No! He couldn’t go there. Every time he thought about what might’ve happened—and why—ice ran through his veins and he felt like puking his guts up. He couldn’t imagine a world without her and his frustration at not ever being around to help when she needed him caused physical pain. He should be with her now. With a growl, he ran his hands through his much-mussed hair and yanked on it. No matter how he’d got to this point, he had to work out how to get back to where they had been.

A thought flitted through his head and he latched onto it as if it were the key to life itself: she still had his ring. Until she gave it back, he refused to believe that all was lost. She’d asked for time and he was willing to give her as much as she needed. But he needed to talk to her first. Just once. Just for a few minutes.

Harry looked up and surveyed the scene below him. From where he was sitting on the hill behind the Burrow, he could see through the kitchen windows that most of the family was inside, including Fleur and Hermione. Jealousy shot through him—apparently he was the only one being excluded now.

Ginny’s bedroom was dark, but that could mean she was asleep or in another room. Ron had told him not to try to see her, but Harry wasn’t so sure anymore. Perhaps George was the only one set against him. Maybe the others would let him in. Surely, Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t turn him away…

Tired and cold and hungry, Harry knew he wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to confront even one, much less five, protective brothers. Going down there now could destroy whatever might remain of his relationship with the people he considered his only real family. But he couldn’t wait any longer. If he didn’t see Ginny right now, he would go mad.

Harry walked resolutely down the hill, ignoring the heartbeats thundering in his chest. He’d been less nervous facing Voldemort. When Bill opened the kitchen door, all sound and activity inside froze. Harry met Bill’s stare defiantly.

“I need to see Ginny.” His voice sounded more confident that he felt.

With a glance over his shoulder and a resigned nod, Bill opened the door wider and stepped aside for Harry to enter. “We’ve been expecting you, mate.”

Even though the tone was somber, Harry took the words as a good sign and stiffened his spine as he stepped into the room. They watched him cautiously, as if uncertain what to expect. He supposed they had a right—he hadn’t exactly been the most even-tempered person over the years. When Ron and Hermione rose from the table to stand next to him, he drew comfort from the gesture. Perhaps things weren’t as dire as they seemed. But he also noticed that George wasn’t present.

As Mrs. Weasley bustled over and gathered him close, Harry was struck by just how much he'd missed feeling a heart beating next to his. And he could smell that same flowery scent he associated with Ginny. Not quite the same—he’d rather hold Ginny—but he couldn't get over how much it felt like taking a huge gulp of water after being in the sun too long—soothing relief of an unrealized need. He savored the comfort for several moments before pulling back to give Mrs. Weasley a pleading look.

“I need to see Ginny. Please.”

She took his face in her hands and smiled sadly at him. “Oh, Harry—”

“No!” George stood at the foot of the stairs, wand drawn and jaw set. “Hasn’t he done enough already?”

“George—” Molly started, but Harry interrupted, stepping away from her to face George, a spark of anger putting him into a fighting stance.

“I just want to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“George, that’s enough,” Molly said in the tone Harry knew usually stopped any of her children in their tracks, even though they were adults and bigger than she was. George ignored her. So did Harry. Bill and Ron stepped forward, ready to intervene.

“I don’t believe you.” Harry said, his control beginning to slip. “I want to hear it from her.”

“You’ve got no right to make demands,” George sneered. “After what you did to her, how can you even ask?”

“George! Stop it, right now!” Molly was growing angry. Arthur moved next to her.

Harry’s stomach roiled at the turmoil he was causing, but he couldn’t back down. He had to see Ginny now, for sure. His voice rose in anger. “How can I fix it if I can’t talk to her?”

Ron grasped Harry’s arm. “Easy, mate…” Harry shook him off and stepped toward George.

George met him halfway. “You _can’t_ fix it. You’re done. Just get away and leave her alone.”

“George.” Arthur’s voice was low but held a warning.

“Harry, come on. Let’s go outside and cool off,” Ron murmured.

Harry ignored him and focused on George. His voice rose another notch. “I don’t believe you. She’s still got my—” He stopped short as Hermione grabbed his arm and frowned at him. He glared at George. “I don’t believe you. I need to see her.”

“I said piss off, you—”

“Stop. Please stop…”

At the plaintive cry, all eyes riveted on the stairs behind George.

“Ginny—” Harry whispered hoarsely, unable to believe what he was seeing. With skin as white as her nightdress, she could’ve been a ghost but for her dull copper hair and eyes sunk into purple shadows. Tears coursed over her hollowed cheeks. “Ginny—” he croaked again and tried to push past George, who stood his ground.

Ginny shook her head and backed up the stairs whispering “please stop, please don’t” over and over again.

“Ginny, what are you doing out of bed?” Molly scolded, slipping past George and Harry to shoo her back upstairs and out of sight.

Harry watched her go, bile rising in his throat. Had he really done that to her? Had he really been the reason she’d tried to— With renewed resolve, he shoved harder to get past George, but Arthur’s hand came down on his shoulder, stilling the movement.

“Harry,” Arthur said gently. “Not tonight, son. She needs some time. Maybe in a few days—”

Harry wrenched away from Arthur’s grasp and whirled on him. “Don’t call me that! I’m _not_ your son!”

At Arthur’s stricken look, Harry felt a jolt of regret that only made him angrier. They were standing between him and Ginny. How dare they make him feel guilty?

With a furious look around the room, Harry stormed out the door and slammed it behind him. Racing to get beyond the protective charms, he ignored Hermione’s pleas to stop, but pulled up short as he rounded the corner and found three photographers aiming their cameras at him. Blinded by the flashes, he flung out his hand in a rage and sent them flying backwards. He heard Hermione scream, but stepped and turned the second he was beyond the anti-Apparition area.

***

The sound of the slamming door echoed in Ginny’s head for days. She had cried for hours that night while her mother rocked her as if she were seven instead of seventeen.

Afterward, Mum had tried to be patient and understanding, offering to listen and trying to give advice. Dad had even tried to draw her out by just sitting with her for a while each evening. But, no matter how much she wanted to, Ginny just couldn’t bring herself to confide in either of her parents. She retreated into herself further and further, rarely leaving her room and pretending to sleep if anyone came to bring food or check on her. After a while, she even stopped vanishing her untouched meals and simply ignored her mother’s grumbling. Time became meaningless as she stared at the ceiling of Percy’s old room, her mind blank and body sluggish.

After a week, her mother had decided enough was enough.

“This has gone on long enough, Ginevra. Get out of that bed right now and get into the shower.”

Ginny pulled the covers over her head in response. When the blankets disappeared, she reached for the pillow, which vanished as well.

“Get up now or I’ll carry you in there and bathe you myself.”

Ginny knew her mother well enough to believe the threat.

In the end, she gave in and began to go through the motions of living again because it was easier than putting up a fight. She bathed and dressed and came down for meals, but otherwise showed little interest in anything. Occasionally, her family tried to draw her out, but mostly allowed her to live on the fringes undisturbed. With their first Christmas without Fred only three weeks away, the mood in the house grew more somber by the day and Ginny knew she was just making matters worse… which only deepened her feelings of failure and futility.

As time passed, she settled into the routine set for her and managed to get through most days without crying... at least where anyone else could see. She began listening to the dinnertime conversation, even if she didn’t participate. (They spoke of Harry only in whispers when they thought she wasn’t around; she was torn between frustration and relief.)  She even began taking on minor chores to keep her mother from worrying both of them to death. Right or wrong, she was taking the easy way out.

Her world had narrowed to two rooms (three, if you counted the bath) and she was quite content to stay cloistered in her safe cocoon—except when she caught glimpses of the worry on her mother’s face or the sadness in her father’s eyes. Or when Mum reached the end of her patience and demanded that Ginny get on with life. At those times she longed to escape, to fly away and free them from the burden she’d become. But Dad had locked the brooms away and Mum watched her like a hawk. She supposed they had good reason, but some days—like today—she thought she’d go round the twist (further than she already had) if she had to submit to one more minute of her mother’s coddling and prodding.

Ron and Hermione came for supper one evening a couple of weeks after the confrontation with Harry. They never said anything to her directly, but Ginny could feel their eyes on her whenever she looked away. The evening seemed to stretch endlessly. After the meal had been cleared, Ginny dawdled in the kitchen until the first possible moment that she could escape to her room without drawing Mum’s attention. She had barely got the door shut and flopped face-first on the bed when someone knocked. Cursing herself for forgetting to cast the locking charm, she stayed quiet with little real hope that she’d be left alone. After a few moments, the knock came again and she groaned inwardly when the door opened a crack.

“Ginny?” Hermione stuck her head in. “Can I come in?”

Ginny didn’t move—feigning sleep was probably hopeless, but she had to try.

“I know you’re not asleep. You just came up. I want to talk to you about—something. I won’t stay long, I promise.”

Ginny had a good idea what “something” was and she wasn’t the least bit interested in talking about him. Or maybe, deep down, she really was, because she couldn’t bring herself to say no. Without moving, she gave a reluctant, blanket-muffled sigh in response.

Hermione came in and closed the door, casting locking and silencing charms before moving the desk chair around the bed to sit where she could see Ginny’s half-buried face.

“You seem to be feeling a bit better,” Hermione started tentatively.

Ginny gave a humorless grunt of laughter. “I’m a better actress than I thought, then.”

“Well, you look better. Your color is coming back and—”

“I look like shit, Hermione.” Ginny rolled onto her back and laid her arm across her eyes. “Just get to the point.”

The silence throbbed between them for a moment. Ginny thought maybe Hermione had lost her nerve, but then she spoke with the confident tone she used when she knew she was indisputably right.

“You need to talk to Harry.”

Ginny had expected those exact words, but they still slammed into her like a Bludger. She swallowed hard and a tear slid down the side of her face into her ear. “I can’t,” she said in a broken whisper.

“Why not? Ginny, he’s beside himself. He doesn’t understand—”

“I can’t!” Ginny hissed, turning her back on Hermione.

“But, why? Ginny, this doesn’t make any sense—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Ginny sat up and glared at Hermione. “You think I _want_ to be like this, that I wouldn’t change if I could?” Dropping her head into her hands, she let the tears fall freely. “I hate what I’ve become. Believe me, if I could go back, if I could be myself again, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

Hermione shifted over to the edge of the bed and put her arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “But why push Harry away? It’s killing him that he can’t be here, that you won’t let him help.”

At Hermione’s touch, Ginny had stiffened, but she gave in and slumped against the strong shoulder offered for crying. “I know,” she moaned. “I know and I’m so sorry. He came again. I told Mum to send him away. I just can’t see him. I just can’t.”

Hermione stroked her back until the sobs subsided. “He loves you, you know. He’s set out several times to give Robards his resignation. Ron and I keep talking him into waiting, but I don’t know how much longer we can hold him off. Can’t you talk to him, just for a few minutes?”

Ginny drew a shuddering breath and sniffled loudly. Hermione conjured a tissue for her.

“Do you know what I see when I close my eyes?” Ginny whispered after she’d found her voice again.

“What?”

“I see Hagrid carrying him out of the forest and laying him on the ground in front of Voldemort. And when I sleep, I watch Greyback and Tom Riddle beat him senseless and cut off his fingers and rip out his eyes and... and I can’t help him because I can’t make my body do what I want it to, but I can’t stop watching either until…” She shuddered violently at the memory. “I try so hard not to sleep because I dream that same dream over and over until I think I’m going to go completely mad. I cast a silencing charm on my room every night so no one will hear me when I wake up screaming.”

Hermione remained quiet, but Ginny felt the tension her words had caused.

“I feel like I’ve fallen into a deep hole and the more I try to climb out, the deeper it gets. My life is one big mucked up mess. You want to know why I can’t talk to Harry? Because if I see him, I’ll want to touch him, to hold him. And if I do that, I won’t be able to let go.”

Hermione gave her a comforting hug. “Then why not just answer his letters? He’s written to you three times.”

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut as her breath hitched. “I’ve tried. I can’t think what to say.”

“I really don’t think it matters what you say, as long as you say _something_. He’s going mad thinking you don’t love him anymore.” Hermione pulled back and gave her a searching look. “You _do_ still love him, don’t you? You still have his ring.”

Ginny sat up and twisted the invisible ring round and round on her finger. “Yes, I... no... I...” She scrubbed her hands over her face and huffed out a frustrated breath. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? How I feel? I can’t live with him putting himself in danger, knowing it’s just a matter of time until they bring him back in pieces, but I can’t ask him to give up who he is, either. It wouldn’t be right. How could I do that when I’m not sure I’ll ever be sane again no matter what he does?”

Hermione didn’t respond for several moments. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but firm. “Don’t you think it’s time to get some help?”

Ginny looked at her in confusion. “Help?”

“A Mind Healer. We could—”

“No!” Ginny backed away as if she thought Hermione might Apparate her to St. Mungo’s on the spot. “No. The press will find out. I won’t go through that again. I’ll be fine. I just need some time.”

“Ginny, this is mad. You should probably have seen someone last summer, after—” Hermione stopped short and took a deep breath. “Ginny, a Mind Healer can help and no one has to know. Harry saw one for months after the war. Ron and I even went a few times and no one has ever found out.”

Ginny got off the bed and stood before the window, staring into the cloudy night. “They’d find out. But even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t think anything can help at this point.”

“But it _would_ help. You can’t just give up.”

Wrapping her arms tightly around her, Ginny just laid her forehead on the cool glass and didn’t answer.

“At least say you’ll think about it,” Hermione said gently.

With a sigh of surrender, Ginny nodded against the window. After a second or two, she was finished thinking about it, but she didn’t tell Hermione that.

“And please try to write to Harry. Please?”

Ginny fingered his ring and nodded again. She knew Hermione was right. Now she just had to make herself do it.


	19. Collision Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny set out on individual paths that will bring them back together, but not necessarily in the way they'd hoped.
> 
> WARNING: Fairly graphic depiction of violence.

Ginny was curled in her usual chair by the kitchen fire, staring absently into the flames. Had it really been two days since she’d talked to Hermione? Where had the time gone? Sometimes it went by so slowly she thought all of the clocks in the world had stopped or were moving backwards. Other times, she blinked and found that days had passed—this was one of those weeks.

As she toyed with her necklace, she struggled to organize her thoughts, trying to think how she was going to write to Harry. Most of the time she knew that things could never work between them. She simply could not deal with the danger he would face every day, and she knew without a doubt that, in the end, he would choose his calling over her. She saw no point in delaying the inevitable. But when she tried to put her feelings on paper, her heart would resist, clinging desperately to the feeble hope that somehow they could work things out, that she could be what he needed—that she could be what _she_ needed. And she would sink back into her pit of despair, abandoned quill dripping onto the parchment as she slunk back to her chair or her bed.

The fire flared green and George stepped wearily into the room. He gave her a tired smile and twisted a chair around to flop down next to her.

“How was your day?” she asked. Of all the people in the family, George understood her best and pressured her least. He was the one person she was always ready to have by her side.

“Mad,” he said, slouching down in his chair and closing his eyes. “The Christmas rush is full on. You can tell Hogwarts is out for the hols. Who would’ve _ever_ thought we’d be short-handed with four of us working full tilt?”

Ginny averted her eyes as guilt exploded in her chest. In addition to George and Ron, Verity had come back to work when Ginny had gone back to school and they’d hired another young wizard to run deliveries. But Ginny knew she should be working with them, too, especially during the holiday rush.

George’s head popped up and he gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. I wish—” She stopped with a shrug and a sigh and stared at her fingers playing with her ring.

“I was actually thinking of Fred.” George stared grimly into the fire. “He’d think it was brilliant.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” she said with a sad smile. “He’d be proud of you—both of you—for making it so successful.”

They sat in silent remembrance for a moment before George turned to her with a sympathetic grin. “So, how was _your_ day?”

Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “Mad. I know Mum loves me, but if I weren’t already barmy, she’d turn me that way for sure. She made me help with the Christmas cakes today.”

George gave a little laugh, then stopped short and turned to her with a speculative look in his eye. “You know, helping at the shop might not be such a bad idea aft—” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “Hang on, now. Just hear me out.”

Ginny scowled at him, but remained silent.

“We’re getting behind on tallying the receipts and pricing the new inventory. There’s loads to do behind the scenes that we can’t get to for tending to the customers. You could come and work in the office and the storeroom. You’d never have to see anyone but me and Ron and Verity and Lionel. No one else would even know you were there.”

Ginny gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know…”

“At least think about it. If you get tired, you can pop up to the flat for a kip—you could stay up there all day if you want. It’ll get you out of the house and get Mum off your back for a few days, yeah?”

Ginny stared into the fire, weighing her options. She knew George was trying to help, trying to pull her back into the land of the living. Maybe it wasn’t _such_ a terrible idea. Better than baking Christmas cakes, anyway.

“Look,” George said, warming to his argument. “Tomorrow is Thursday. Friday and Saturday are sure to be our busiest days with Christmas next week. Just try it. Help us get caught up a bit and see how you like it. If you don’t, you don’t have to come back.”

Ginny chewed her lip. She didn’t think she had the energy or concentration to really be much help, but then, maybe something mundane and repetitive like tallying receipts would get her mind off of... other things for a bit.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

A huge grin split George’s face. “Great!” He stood quickly and looked about the room. Grabbing a Christmas figurine from the center of the table, he waved his wand and muttered over it several times, then held it out to her. “A Portkey. Just in case. It’ll take you straight into the office. I set it for half eight. That’ll get you there before the rush hits so I can show you what needs doing.”

She eyed the figurine warily. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Aren’t you supposed to go through the Department of Magical Transportation for one of those?”

“This is a special case,” he said with a wink. “I’ll go first thing in the morning and get it approved.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes in disbelief, but just tucked the porcelain figure into her pocket when her parents came into the kitchen. With heavy sigh and a conspiratorial look at George, she pushed herself wearily from her chair and began setting the table before her mother could harass her. For the first time in weeks, her heart felt just a bit lighter and she was actually almost looking forward to the coming day.

***

After his ill-fated trip on Saturday, Harry had tried once more to see Ginny, skiving off his Monday afternoon classes to visit the Burrow when only Mrs. Weasley would be home with her. He’d left his pride at the door and begged shamelessly to be allowed upstairs, but Mrs. Weasley had made him stay in the kitchen while she checked to see if Ginny would allow it. He was convinced that Mrs. Weasley hadn’t actually talked to Ginny, that she’d just gone up and stood in the hallway for a few minutes before coming back down to tell him that Ginny had asked for more time. And he was also sure that someone (probably George) had intercepted his letters—it was the only reason he could imagine why Ginny hadn’t answered. After the confrontation with George, he was positive that the Weasleys were conspiring to keep them apart. He even wondered if Ron and Hermione were in on it, although they assured him that he was imagining things.

Imagining things or not, he clung to the one bit of knowledge that gave him hope:  Ginny still had his ring. That must mean she still loved him. But as much as he wanted to, he just couldn’t bring himself to fight everyone to get to her. He had to be patient and keep trying.

The waiting was wearing on him. His classmates had learned quickly to stay out of his way, and to avoid, at all cost, pairing with him for dueling or hand-to-hand combat practice. As he channeled his anger and frustration into his training, his spellwork and physical strength had improved dramatically—and his training partners paid the price.

But what really drove him each day into the training room before dawn and onto the pavements of London until well after midnight was a desperate search for exhaustion. If he worked himself hard enough, he could sometimes sleep for an hour or two without being haunted by dreams of Ginny in the Room of Requirement, sending him away with that cold look in her eyes, or on the stairs at the Burrow, looking pale and gaunt, backing away from him in fear—dreams where she was so close, but always just out of reach.

His only respite was his time with Teddy on Wednesdays. After that disastrous first visit following his capture, Harry had worked hard to focus on his godson during their time together. The extra effort had paid off for both of them. Teddy was happier and Harry found that his mind got a break from the fear and frustration that had taken over his world. His last two visits, he’d stayed in the rocking chair long after Teddy had fallen asleep. If Andromeda hadn’t sent him on his way, he would’ve spent the whole night holding the baby close and savoring the feel of soft breaths on his neck and tiny heartbeats against his chest.

Andromeda hadn’t allowed him to stay quite as long tonight, saying that she had an early appointment in the morning. Harry wasn’t sure he believed her—she was most likely in on the conspiracy with the Weasleys—but he wished her a good night and set off on his nightly rambles.

The afterglow of his visit evaporated quickly as his thoughts turned to Ginny, wondering how she was, what she was doing, if she were thinking about him and knew that he was trying to reach her. More than a month had passed since she’d sent him away from the Room of Requirement. More than a month since he’d talked to her and held her; even longer since he’d made love to her. How much time was enough?

Hunching his shoulders against the drizzle soaking his Muggle jacket, Harry forced his thoughts in a different direction. Unfortunately, the track they took was no better.

Fleur had been after him for weeks to fulfill his deal with Quality Quidditch Supplies for the brooms they’d given to Hogwarts. He wished now that he’d just bought the bloody brooms outright. At least she had only told the shop owner the week of his visit, not a specific day or time, so no one really knew when he would show up. And she’d worked it out that he didn’t have to _do_ anything much—just visit the shop, listen to Jonathan Quigley’s spiel about whatever hot new broom he was pushing, purchase the broom, and leave. Tomorrow was the day, and he’d give anything not to go.

Of course, Fleur had reminded him repeatedly that he had to be on his best behavior. He’d assured her he knew how to put on a public face and could manage to do so for the ten minutes he’d be in the shop, but she had insisted on going with him to “assist with the control of the crowd.” He thought she’d also arranged for added security, which was probably a good thing if the press showed up—even if the visit was supposed to be unannounced, he was sure Quigley had put the word out and the media would be there. Harry knew he could control himself with the general public, but he wasn’t at all sure he would do so well if a reporter asked a stupid question or said anything about Ginny.

His last encounter with the press outside of the Burrow had caused quite a stir in the papers. Fleur had been livid, but at least she’d been there to handle the worst of it, and had almost managed to convince most of the photographers that they hadn’t _really_ seen Harry use wandless magic. But some of their speculations made it into print anyway and he’d had to answer to Robards for his recklessness. Harry had actually been quite surprised by the whole event himself. It was the first time he’d managed such a powerful spell without a wand, but he presumed his emotional state at the time was the reason, because he hadn’t been able to repeat it since.

With a growl of irritation, Harry turned onto the path leading into his favorite park. He’d gone only a dozen steps when an unfamiliar owl landed on his shoulder. It took off again as soon as he’d slipped the note from its leg.

With a quick look around to be sure he was alone, Harry lit his wand and unrolled the parchment. The note was short.

 

_Midnight tomorrow. 3 Brooms.  –M_

 

His first thought was that Malfoy had girly handwriting. Harry waved his wand over the note—it glowed green indicating it had been charmed so only he could read it. Narcissa must’ve sent it. As he flicked his wand and turned the note to ash, Harry wondered which of them would show up.

***

The dream began as it always did…

_Her heart beat frantically and her legs felt wooden and heavy as they chased her through the dark winding passages, the stench of blood and sweat and death and the hiss of Parseltongue swirling all around. Harry was waiting when she reached the Chamber, and she tried to scream, to warn him… The attack was more vicious than ever. She watched in terror and desperation as Riddle attacked from behind, torturing and mutilating Harry as he called out to her, begging her to talk to him, to help him. But, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t close her eyes…_

But then things changed…

_Riddle turned suddenly and lunged at her. She tried to run; her legs refused to move. He grabbed her from behind, pinning her tightly against him—but it was Greyback’s hand fondling her breast, Greyback’s erection thrusting against her back. She struggled against him, gagging at his foul breath burning the side of her face._

_“Soon, you little slut. Soon,” Riddle’s voice whispered in her ear._

_She thrashed in vain against the werewolf’s strength as he dragged her to stand over where Harry lay broken and bleeding on the ground, calling her name through a gurgle of blood oozing from his mouth. She struggled wildly to get away. She couldn’t let him see what Greyback was going to do to her. She couldn’t watch him die like this._

_She could hear Riddle laughing in her ear as Greyback wrapped her hands around a dagger and held them firmly in place with his own. She could feel only one person at her back, but Ginny watched with detached horror as three sets of hands plunged the blade into Harry’s chest. He gasped in pain, eyes wide with surprise and accusation at her betrayal before he collapsed. His warm blood spurted over her, covering her hands and arms. Her throat was on fire with screams she didn’t recognize as her own. When Riddle and Greyback—they seemed to be one—wrapped her hands around Harry’s still-twitching heart and began pulling it from his chest, her lungs stopped working. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think for the terror exploding in her brain…_

“Ginny! Wake up! Wake up, Ginny!”

She struggled for several moments in the space between sleeping and waking before she realized who was shaking her. Clinging to her mother’s neck, she sobbed hysterically, “Please make them stop. I don’t want to hurt him anymore. Make them stop.”

“It’s okay, Ginny. You’re safe. It’s okay.” Her mother held her close, rocking gently.

Ginny forced her eyes open and gasped for air to rid herself of the memory. Once her mother’s soothing words and familiar scent had calmed her a bit, her father pressed a cup of tea into her hands. She took a shaky sip and grimaced; he’d laced it with Firewhiskey. With a shuddering breath, she took a large gulp as they watched her, their faces filled with concern. She hated that she’d forgotten to set the silencing charm and had worried them, but she was also glad for the comfort of their presence.

“Thank you,” she whispered after many long moments.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mum asked gently, stroking Ginny’s hair back from her face.

Ginny shook her head and averted her eyes as she tipped the cup to her lips. Her parents shared a meaningful look.

“This isn’t the first nightmare, is it?” Dad asked.

She lowered the cup to her lap and stared into its contents. “No,” she said quietly.

“You’ve been charming your room so we wouldn’t hear, haven’t you?” His voice was gentle, but the note of disapproval was clear.

She nodded reluctantly as she continued to stare into her cup, her hair shielding her face from them. She’d be having a word with Hermione.

“But why?” her mother asked.

Ginny shrugged and murmured meekly, “I... I didn’t want to worry you. I’ve been enough trouble. You don’t need that on top of... everything.”

Her mother gave an exasperated huff. “Ginny, dear, how can we help you if you won’t tell us what’s going on? Maybe it’s time to go to St. Mungo’s—”

“No!” She looked at them defiantly. “No! I won’t go. You can’t make me. I’ll be fine. I just need some time.”

“Now, Ginny—” Mum started, her tone of voice hinting of an impending row.

“I’m fine.” Ginny interrupted before her mother could get fully wound up. “I’m getting better. I’m... I’m going to the shop tomorrow—” she glanced at the clock “—today—to help George. In the office. I’ll be fine. Just... just give me some time.” Her tone turned to pleading. “Please. Don’t make me go to St. Mungo’s. I promise, I’ll do better... I'll be okay.” She turned wide-eyed to her father, just as she had since she was little when she wanted something desperately. “Please, Daddy. Please don’t make me go.”

Her parents exchanged a doubtful look, but her father gave a resigned nod. “We won’t make you... for now. But no more silencing charms. Understood?”

Ginny gave them a grateful look and nodded, her fingers crossed in the folds of the blanket next to her cup.

They made her finish her tea and tucked her back into bed, but she didn’t sleep. Dawn was just a couple of hours away and she couldn’t bring herself to risk having that dream again. She lay staring into the darkness, thinking about Harry. She’d sent him away because she couldn’t handle the reality of his life, and it wasn’t right to ask him to give up his dreams when she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to be what either of them needed. But even though she knew she had no right, she missed him terribly and longed for the warmth and comfort of his arms. It had been so hard to send him away again—twice. She wasn’t sure she could do it a third time. She really did need to write to him, to explain that maybe one day she would be all right and, if he would let her, she could love him again. But, right now, she just needed some time to get back to herself. Then, maybe…

She got up and sat at her desk, quill hovering over her parchment, thoughts tumbling through her brain. By the time she heard her mother stirring about in the kitchen and gave up, all she had to show for her effort were a dozen balls of wadded parchment in the bin, none of which had any more than “Dear Harry” written on them followed by a variety of inkblots and tearstains. With a weary sigh, she showered, dressed, and settled into her chair by the kitchen fire to wait for the Portkey to activate.

***

Harry was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, eyes closed, catching his breath, when Summers flopped down next to him.

“How long you been here?”

“Dunno,” Harry said without opening his eyes. “Couple hours, maybe.”

“You tryin’ to kill yourself or something?”

Harry wiped his face with a towel and took a swig from his water bottle. “Or something.”

Summers shook his head and laughed. “You’re absolutely mental, you know that?”

“Yeah. So I’ve been told.” Harry leaned his head back against the wall and watched his classmates file in for the morning training session.

Summers laid his head back and draped his arms over his raised knees. “What’s going on with the search? Anything new at the meetings?”

“Just the same old—reports from the field agents, lots of talk, no action,” Harry said wearily.

Summers dropped his voice and watched his wand twirl through his fingers. “Heard anything from your contact?”

Harry kept his eyes on the group gathering in the middle of the room. He didn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Summers said after a minute, keeping his own eyes away from Harry. “You know where he is? Dolohov?”

Harry took another gulp of water. He trusted Summers—perhaps one day he’d have to do so with his life. But Summers wasn’t Ron or Hermione, and Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to confide everything he knew to anyone else. On the other hand, he and Summers were of the same mind when it came to getting on with the show. They were both frustrated with the waiting and talking. Maybe it was time to find a partner he could count on within the division.

“Tonight,” Harry said quietly. “Maybe.”

Summers stood and offered a hand to help Harry up. “I’m in, yeah?”

Harry bent down to pick up his towel and water bottle. As he headed toward the rest of the class, he answered without looking. “Yeah.”

***

The repetition was soothing: record a column of figures, tap her wand to total it; record a column of figures, tap her wand to total it. She could have done the recording magically as well and been finished in short order, but focusing on aligning the numbers into a precise grid occupied her mind and kept away the thoughts that had haunted her for weeks.

Tallying a week’s worth of receipts took her most of the morning, but only because she dragged out the task. She knew George could’ve finished it in a matter of minutes. Even Ron could manage it in under an hour. But she suspected they’d been saving this for her, knowing full well that, with no one else at the house to run interference, she would eventually need to escape their mother’s attention.

George hadn’t been exaggerating about the Christmas rush. Beyond the curtain that separated the office and storeroom from the shop, Ginny could hear the constant din of excited conversation. She occasionally caught a glimpse of the crush of customers when George, Ron, or Verity would breeze through to collect more merchandise from the storeroom. But except for a quick word now and then, none of them had time to talk and, content with her own company, Ginny made no effort to seek out anyone else. She was comfortable in her quiet, safe haven.

At lunchtime, Ginny had gone up to the flat to fix sandwiches that everyone else gobbled on the run. She ate a bit of cheese and a handful of raisins while she finished the bookwork at the desk.

When she was done, she spent several moments just standing in the doorway of the storeroom, trying to decide if she had the energy to tackle it. At least a dozen large crates sat open in the middle of the room, their contents jumbled and spilling onto the floor (or escaping under their own steam to hide in the room’s nooks and crannies)—the result of willy-nilly searches for items that had sold out of the shop displays. Tempted to give in to the weariness tugging at her, Ginny had almost decided to go upstairs to lie down when George rushed in behind her and started digging frantically through the crates.

“Bloody things are probably at the bottom,” he muttered to himself as he flung products haphazardly over his shoulder.

Taking pity on him, Ginny knelt down beside the nearest crate. “What are we looking for?”

“Wildfire Whiz-Bangs,” he answered absently as he moved to rifle through the next crate.

“These?” She held up a couple of boxes with labels that cycled through a rainbow of bright explosions of color.

“Yes! Ah, bless you, love.” George planted a sloppy kiss on her forehead. “I should’ve got you to come in a week ago.”

He was gone before she could reply, but she had to smile as she wiped her face. Heaving a sigh, she decided to plunge ahead and make herself useful.

Working slowly and methodically, Ginny meticulously lined the products in alphabetical order on the shelves, casting freezing spells on the ones that kept trying to get away. By the time the third crate was emptied, she knew what was in each of the others and could quickly hand over whatever was needed when one of the shop staff came in.

By late afternoon, she was down to two crates. The shop was a bit quieter, although still filled with customers. As she was standing on tiptoe, stretching to place the last of the Canary Creams on a high shelf, a hand reached from behind to help push the box into place.

With a shriek, she whirled away, brandishing her wand… then let out a shaky breath of relief. Hand on her heart, she closed her eyes and inhaled several times to calm herself.

“Merlin, you nearly scared me to death.”

“Sorry,” Dean said with a tentative smile.

She watched as he picked up the two boxes she’d dropped and placed them carefully on the shelf before turning to her with an uncertain look. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet a bit. “I, uh, saw you back here when that girl went through a minute ago. I was going to ask Ron if I could come back, but he was busy and so was George and I couldn’t get that girl’s attention and the other bloke just went on a delivery, so... well, so I just came on in.”

Ginny could tell he was nervous—he didn’t usually ramble so when he talked. She was a bit ill at ease, herself. They hadn’t talked since she’d fallen from her broom and she hadn’t answered the letter he’d sent to ask how she was doing. “It’s okay. I... I’m just helping in the back. Not out front.” She could tell from the look on his face that he understood why.

He cleared his throat. “So, erm... how are you?”

She sighed and leaned back against the shelves. “All right, I guess. A bit better, actually. Today, anyway.”

He studied her for a moment, then ran a hand over his close-cropped curls. “Ginny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you fall. I just wanted to help.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” She sat down on one of the crates and gestured for him to join her. He sat next to her, but left space between them. Idly toying with her ring, she searched for the right words. “I wasn’t... I didn’t mean... I wasn’t _trying_ to... to fall off. I just... wasn’t thinking straight.”

“But if I hadn’t tried to grab you—”

“The same thing would’ve happened,” she insisted firmly. “I wasn’t... I didn’t go up thinking I’d... come down like that. But I think I had gone round the twist, you know? There was nothing else you could’ve done.”

“But—”

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. I know…” She trailed off and they sat in awkward silence for a few moments. “So, erm, how has your holiday been?” she finally asked, desperate to change the topic.

He shrugged. “All right, I guess. I just came from Colin’s show—the gallery is down the street. You should go.”

“Oh. Right. I’d forgotten about it. How’s it going?” She wasn’t really interested, but it seemed proper to ask.

“Really well,” he said with a smile. “Dennis was there with his parents. They’re all pretty excited. I can see where he and Colin get it from, now. Oh, I saw Lisa, too.”

“Oh?” Ginny gave him a sly look and noted that his color had deepened a bit. “How is she?”

“She’s good. A lot better. She asked about you.”

Ginny looked at the floor. “What did you tell her?”

“Not to believe everything she reads in the paper.”

Ginny gave a humorless little laugh and looked back at him. “So, are the two of you…?”

He shrugged and his look turned searching. “Dunno. Guess it depends.” He paused, then seemed to make a decision and drew a deep breath. “What about you... and Harry?”

At the sound of his name, Ginny’s stomach clenched and she looked down at her fingers again as they worried her ring. She drew a shaky breath. “I... I...” A knot rose in her throat and she gave up trying to talk.

He watched her for a moment and his voice turned hard. “How can you still feel that way? After the way he—”

“It’s not him!” she interrupted irritably. “It’s not him. It’s me. It’s my fault. I can’t—” She blinked her eyes to get rid of the blur that had suddenly appeared and bit down on her trembling lip. She didn’t want to cry. She was so bloody tired of crying. But when Dean sighed and wrapped his arms around her, she couldn’t help herself. Burying her face in his shoulder, she gave into the sobs that shook her body. She missed Harry so much and being in Dean’s arms only made the loss seem more real. Dean was warm and familiar. He stroked her hair and murmured soothing words in her ear, and she clung to him because he was there, and she knew he cared and wanted to help. But he wasn’t Harry. And that made her cry all the harder.

As she finally began to gain control of herself again, she heard the footsteps stop in the hallway and silently groaned at the thought that Ron or George would see her like this again—or worse, that it would be Verity or Lionel. But when she took a deep breath and looked up, her heart stopped in mid-beat and her throat closed up so she could only croak in a strangled whisper.

“Harry...”


	20. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry deals with his problems in typical fashion.

Fleur and Hermione were waiting for Harry in the atrium when he finished his last class. He’d expected Fleur; she didn’t trust him to get to Quality Quidditch Supplies on time and behave himself without an escort. But Hermione was a surprise. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Thought I’d come along. I need to get a couple of Christmas gifts.”

He snorted. “Uh huh. Fleur recruited you to help keep me under control, didn’t she?”

Hermione laughed. “Do you need keeping under control?”

“Apparently,” he said, just as Fleur said, “Yes.”

“Well, I also thought we could go find Ron afterward and get something to eat,” Hermione added as Harry glared at Fleur.

He shrugged. “Might as well. It’s not like I have a full social calendar.”

Fleur cast him an obviously contrived look of innocence. “I should add this to my list, then, yes?

“No!” he said with a look of horrified gasp. “I’m fine. Let’s do this. I’m ready for it to be over.”

The event went smoothly, for the most part, with only one tense moment when a reporter shouted a question about Ginny’s mental stability. Fleur and Hermione had firmly steered Harry into the shop and the resulting excitement of the shoppers had diverted the danger of his hexing the reporter into oblivion. The entire visit lasted half an hour, but only because the shop owner showed Harry five brooms rather than one. Harry purchased the most expensive one (Ron had been going on about it and Harry planned to give it to him for Christmas) and helped Hermione pick out a Cannons jersey for Teddy.

When they had finally headed down the street to Weasley’s with the security detail following along to keep the press and fans at bay, he heaved a sigh of relief. “No more of those, Fleur. I’ve had enough of being a traveling circus.”

“We will see,” she said, gazing around at the gawking passers-by. “The next time the Minister calls, we will see.”

“No, not even for him. Unless it’s something that really matters, something that really helps someone, I’m no longer available for display.”

She hummed her doubtful agreement. “I must go. Bill will be waiting for me.”

As she Disapparated, Harry and Hermione gave her a wave and strolled the rest of the way to Weasley's in silence. When they arrived at the door of the packed shop, Harry groaned. “More people. I’m going to the back.”

Hermione tiptoed to scan the crowd. “I’ll let Ron know we’re here. It’s nearly closing time, so he should be able to go soon.”

Harry nodded and they parted ways. He pushed his way through the crowd and stepped behind the curtain leading to the back of the shop with a sigh of relief—then froze in his tracks.

***

“Harry...“

Ginny pulled away from Dean and tried to remember how to breathe as Harry stared at them from the doorway, his face twisted in pain and fury. Dean tilted his chin defiantly, but Harry’s eyes were for Ginny alone.

She stood and took a step toward him, palms outstretched. “Harry, please, it’s—”

“Harry, no! Wait!” Hermione’s voice burst through the curtain from the shop just before she did. She stopped and quickly surveyed the scene. A split second before he moved, she grabbed Harry’s arm—and they were gone.

Ginny’s legs wouldn’t hold her any longer and she sank unsteadily back down to the crate, her hand over her mouth, her eyes closed as she willed her stomach into submission.

Dean sat down next to her, but when he placed his hand on her back, she jerked away.

“Please go,” she whispered. “Please, just go.”

He hesitated, but she wrapped her arms around herself and turned her back to him, rocking in silent misery. After another minute, she heard him walk out.

***

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? You could’ve been Splinched!” Harry yelled as he picked the two of them off the ground. When he’d landed on the top step at Grimmauld Place, Hermione’s unexpected weight had overbalanced him and they’d tumbled in a heap onto the pavement below. As soon as she was standing, he pushed her away from him. “Just leave me alone!”

“Not out here, Harry,” Hermione said, casting a look around. A lone photographer was standing in the square across the street, shooting as fast as he could. “Let’s go inside.”

But Harry was beyond angry and his voice only got louder as he waved his arms to emphasize his words. “WHY? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? WHY DOES IT MATTER IF THE WHOLE WORLD KNOWS? I JUST DON’T CARE ANYMORE!”

“Harry—” She made a grab for him and he backed out of reach.

“NO! She can talk to everyone in the world, but she can’t talk to me. All I hear is that she needs time. Well, you know what? She can have time. She can have all the bloody time in the world. She can have fucking forever as far as I’m concerned!”

He turned and raced up the steps, Hermione hot on his heels. As they stormed through the entry hall and down to the kitchen, she was talking a mile a minute.

“Harry Potter, you listen to me. This is not going to solve anything. It’s not what you thought. You—”

Harry wheeled on her. “Not what I thought? Then what was it? If they’d been any closer they might as well have been shagging.”

“You’re wrong! Harry, you’re wrong. You have to stay and work this out.”

“I’VE BEEN TRYING TO WORK IT OUT! For a whole month, I’ve been trying to work it out! They won’t let me get near her. No—that’s wrong. SHE won’t let me get near her. I thought _they_ were keeping me away, but it’s been her all along, hasn’t it? SHE doesn’t want me around. SHE won’t talk to me. Well, fine! She doesn’t want to talk to me, she doesn’t have to. She wants to cuddle up with that fucking wanker, she’s welcome to him.”

He grabbed his broom and pushed past Hermione up the steps to the entry hall.

She raced after him. “Harry, where are you going?”

“Flying. That way I know you won’t follow me.”

He flung open the door and kicked off from the top step, leaving her yelling after him.

***

He hadn’t intended to fly all the way to Hogsmeade from London—that would take more than six hours at top speed in good weather; he had only five before his meeting with Malfoy and the weather was lousy. But once he’d got started, he found it hard to stop. The icy wind rushing through his hair and stinging his face did little to cool his raging fury, even as it chilled him to the bone in spite of his warming charm.

And it wouldn’t blow away the image of Ginny nestled in Dean’s arms… her head pressed into his neck… his lips buried in her hair. Or maybe his lips were on hers… and his hands were…

The further Harry flew, the more distorted the picture in his mind became and the angrier he got. He’d been trying for weeks to see her, to be allowed to offer her that kind of comfort. But she’d kept him away. He was sure of that now. Her family may have been protecting her, but _she_ was the one using them to keep him away.

Even if she did still have his ring.

The thought took hold for a moment, giving a spark of life to the dying hope in his chest, but he stomped it out quickly. Keeping his ring obviously didn’t mean what he’d thought. She could keep the bloody thing forever, as far as he was concerned. He was tired of trying to figure things out. He’d meant it when he’d told Hermione he was done.

When he finally set down near Durham after more than four hours, he was numb with cold and anger. Impatiently, he Apparated the rest of the way to Hogsmeade and stormed into the Three Broomsticks. He knew he was being reckless, being seen like this, but he barked an order for a bottle of Ogden’s at the man tending the bar and slouched into a chair in the back corner of the pub as the bottle and a glass appeared on his table. With relief, he noted it was a quiet night for the pub—Madam Rosmerta wasn’t around and the two other wizards in the room appeared to be too busy drowning their own troubles to pay him any mind.

The warm buzz from the Firewhiskey had fully taken hold when the green blaze lit the room and Malfoy stepped from the Floo.

“Well, well, look at what just wandered in—a ferret,” Harry said loudly, tipping back in his chair. “I must speak to Madam Rosmerta about her standards. She really does let just anyone in, doesn’t she?”

At Harry’s combative tone, the other two wizards looked up and began paying attention.

Malfoy cocked a surprised eyebrow, but Harry was pleased when he played along, balling his fists, ready for a fight. After all, appearances must be maintained, mustn’t they?

“Apparently, she does,” Malfoy said with thick sarcasm, “—if she allows Mudbloods like you in.”

The barman laid his wand on the bar. The two wizards scurried out to find a less hostile place to stay out of the cold.

When the door closed behind them, Harry saluted Malfoy with his glass. “How’s Dad? Does he get out much?”

With flashing eyes, Malfoy took a threatening step forward, no longer just acting a part. His voice turned brittle. “He’s brilliant. Thanks for asking. Mother sends her love.”

That was the reaction Harry wanted—beating someone’s arse would be the perfect way to work off some of his frustration, and Malfoy was a handy target. Harry knew the fight would be heavily weighted in his own favor, especially given Malfoy’s inability to use magic and tendency to run when his odds weren’t good. But all Harry wanted was one solid punch. Besides, if Malfoy had got his information about last month’s raid right in the first place, Harry wouldn’t have been captured and Ginny wouldn’t have sent him away. This whole mucked-up situation was Malfoy’s fault in the first place. The logic made perfect sense to Harry’s anger-and-whiskey-muddled brain.

“Ha!” Harry stood then, slamming his glass down on the table and knocking his chair over as he moved around the table. “I’m sure your mother could use some love. Misses snuggling up to a certain Dark Lord, I’ll bet.”

At that Malfoy raised his fists, tensing into a fighting stance. “What’s the matter, Potter? The Ministry won’t let you do any real work so you have to throw your weight around with innocent bystanders?”

Harry snorted. “Innocent! If you’re innocent, I’m Voldemort’s right hand.”

“Actually, I heard you were even closer than that,” Malfoy sneered. “Right there in his head, I heard. Maybe you were running the show the whole—”

Harry landed a right hook that sent Malfoy sprawling. Malfoy managed to pitch a chair at Harry’s head before the barman threw a shield charm between them.

“Take it outside,” the weary looking man said, struggling to keep the nervous quiver from his voice as he warily eyed Harry. “Madam Rosmerta don’t allow no fightin’ in the pub.”

Harry and Malfoy eyed each other furiously for a moment before Harry turned on his heel and stormed into the night. He never looked back, but he could tell Malfoy was following him into the deserted street and around the corner into the empty field behind the pub. When he’d got far enough into the shadows, he wheeled around and held his fists up. Malfoy stopped out of reach and matched his stance.

“What’s crawled up your arse and hatched, Potter?” Malfoy asked conversationally as they circled each other, heavy snow starting to swirl around them. After a moment, when Harry didn’t answer, Malfoy’s voice took on a tone of enlightenment. “Ah, yes. I remember, now. I’ll wager this has something to do with the Weaslette’s dramatic dismount, doesn’t it?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry said, taking a swing and slipping on the slick surface beneath his feet. He landed flat on his back with a thud.

Malfoy relaxed his stance and stared down at Harry. “Right, then. Can we get on with this so we can go back inside where it’s warm?”

Harry could feel the cold and wet seeping through his robes, but he didn’t move. Even though he was still angry, the flashpoint was past and he just couldn’t be bothered to get up. “You called this meeting,” he said in a flat tone.

“Yeah, well after the reception I’ve just got, maybe I should go. I’m not sure I can trust this information to someone who’s pissed.”

Harry dragged himself slowly to his feet, cast a cleaning charm down his back, and began walking back to the pub. “Suit yourself. I’m going to finish my drink.”

“Oh, for— Get back here, Potter,” Malfoy said, clearly annoyed.

Harry stopped and turned, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it. I’m in no mood for games.”

Malfoy looked around, squinting into the dark. “Do we need to get out of here? What if someone’s watching?”

Harry drew his wand and whipped it in a circle. The darkness briefly receded before his spells, then settled back into place.

“No one’s here. And they can’t hear us now. Talk.”

Malfoy pressed his lips into a thin line and paced in a circle for a moment before speaking. “They’ve abandoned the Isle of Drear—”

“No shite. The Ministry’s gone over it with every spell in the book and then some. Tell me something I don’t know, Malfoy.”

“If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll try.”

Harry just glared and waited for him to continue.

“After you got away, everyone was suspect. He’s been lying low, keeping only a small trusted circle around him. And I use the word ‘trusted’ very loosely.”

“Who?”

“Rowle, Travers, Yaxley…me.”

Harry smirked. “For the money, right?” When Malfoy only grimaced in response, he added, “Go on.”

“He’s beginning to gather his forces again, but he’s starting on the Continent this time. He’s in Bulgaria for the moment. He’ll be headed to Russia in a few days. Your best chance is on Saturday. They’re having a meeting near a mountain town called Charkovo.” He held out a roll of parchment. “Here’s a map. There’ll be about two dozen of them there.”

Harry huffed a breath of disbelief as he opened the map and studied it. “I’ve heard that before. You’re sure about the number?”

Malfoy threw up his hands. “I told you they weren’t including me in all of the meetings before.”

“And they are now?”

Malfoy jutted out his chin. “Yes,” he said tersely.

They glared at each other defiantly for a moment. Harry wasn’t sure he believed that Malfoy was finally part of the inner circle... or that he could be trusted by either side. But, without another choice, Harry was stuck with having to rely on him. The Aurors had been searching more than a month for Dolohov with no luck. This was the best information they were going to get.

“Right. Will you be there? Will I have to worry about getting you out again?” Harry finally asked.

Malfoy raised one eyebrow in a look that said he didn’t appreciate the implication of helplessness. “No. It’s an indoctrination meeting for some new recruits. My presence isn’t required.”

“So, is that it?”

“For now. I’ll be in touch if I find out anything else.”

Harry flicked his wand to cancel the protective charms he’d set. Turning it toward Malfoy, he raised his voice a notch. “I’d better not see your sorry arse here again, you got that, Malfoy?”

“Just watch your back, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, falling back into the roles they’d established.

“Get lost before I change my mind.”

Malfoy turned and disappeared back into the Three Broomsticks. Harry waited several moments before following. When he got back inside, he threw some coins on the bar, grabbed his broom and bottle, and Flooed back to Grimmauld Place. Staggering only a little on the stairs from the kitchen, he settled himself in front of the fireplace in the drawing room and tipped the bottle to his lips.

***

Ginny Flooed home right after Dean left. Ignoring her mother’s surprised questions, she performed every locking charm she could remember on her bedroom door and wondered if it were possible to cast an Unforgiveable Curse on herself.

Her mother, father, George, and Hermione took turns begging her to come out. She stayed curled in a ball under the covers, speaking just often enough to keep them from breaking the door down to check on her.

She hadn’t really believed things could get any worse; she supposed she should’ve known better. The look on Harry’s face haunted her, but she was past crying and numb to the pain she knew she should be feeling. Wasn’t this what she’d been after all along? Wasn’t this what she’d unconsciously set out to do? It was over. Finally and truly over. She’d succeeded in setting him free.

She realized suddenly that she’d been unconsciously playing with her ring. No, _his_ ring. His mother’s ring. Holding her hand to the light, she squinted to watch the rainbow sparkles jump as she tipped it to and fro. It had become a part of her, something that she took for granted. She knew she’d been putting off sending it to him... some part of her clinging to the hope that she wouldn’t really have to. But the time had come. She couldn’t put it off any longer now that she’d hurt him so badly. He wouldn’t have her back now if she begged him.

With leaden limbs, she dragged herself to her desk. The tears started as she dipped her quill and she had to blink them away over and over so she could see what she was doing. Hours passed before she finally signed the parchment and stamped the wax seal onto the envelope. Only then did she give way to the heart wrenching sobs that threatened to rip her to pieces. 

***

Harry was two-thirds of the way through his bottle when the owl tapped at the window.

He stared at the tawny bird for several moments, willing it to go away. Even in his rage and his resolve to walk away, seeing the Weasleys's owl sitting on his windowsill at this hour—and knowing what it had to mean—twisted his gut. He had to force himself to open the window and take the thin but strangely heavy envelope.

Propping the letter on the table in front of him, he sat back and stared at it. All of his worst fears were likely contained in that small square of parchment and he couldn’t bring himself to open the flap and release its demons. He’d expected it, hadn’t he? He’d known all along that it couldn’t last, that he’d been living someone else’s life and would eventually have to give it all back. But he’d hoped—prayed—that it would last, even just a bit longer. He’d wanted, more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life, for things to be different this time, for his life to be just a little bit normal. Apparently, it wasn’t meant to be.

For nearly an hour, he worked his way slowly to the bottom of the bottle and stared at the mocking envelope. As the last swallow of Firewhiskey burned its way to his gut and coursed through his veins, he rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled a bit as he bent over to pick the offensive square of parchment from the table. He tried twice to make his uncooperative fingers pop the wax seal, then finally ripped it from the back of the envelope in frustrated anger.

The ring rolled into his palm. She hadn’t even lifted the Disillusionment Charm. His temper flared as the cool metal and jagged facets bit into his hand, drawing blood when he tightened his fist around them. She couldn’t even be arsed enough to give it back to him in person. He was surprised she hadn’t sent Dean fucking Thomas to deliver it.

He stared at the letter in his trembling hand. What was the point of reading it? He knew what it had to say. In a fit of rage, he crumpled it into a ball and flung his arm toward the fire... but his fingers refused to let go of it. Staring in dismay at the betrayal of his wayward fist, he choked back an anguished wail. Even with the pain searing a hole in his chest, his mind wouldn’t allow him to give up completely.

He sank back into his chair, drawing in great ragged gasps of air and closing his eyes against the burn behind them. How could he do this? Reading her words would make it all real. Then the sharp pain inside his knuckles reminded him that it was already real. She had sent back his ring. By owl. Nothing she could say in writing at this point would change that. Nothing she could say would erase the agony of knowing that, after she’d pushed him away for more than a month, she’d sought comfort in Dean’s arms. It was over. He might as well seal the verdict by reading her final decree. 

His hands shook so badly it took him several moments to straighten the envelope and extract the letter, and then he had to blink repeatedly to focus on the words.

 

 

> _Harry,_
> 
> _I’m so, so sorry. I truly never meant to hurt you. Today wasn’t what you thought, but I know you’ll never give me a chance to explain, or, even if you did, you wouldn’t believe me. I’ve mucked things up so badly—too badly to fix—so I’m sending back your mother’s ring. I know how much it means to you and it wouldn’t be right for me to keep it. Especially not after today._

_I know you’ll never give me a chance to explain…_ The rage that had dropped to a simmer exploded once more. She wasn’t even going to give him a chance. She didn’t respect him enough to even _try_ to explain or to hand him the ring in person. But she’d truly never _meant_ to hurt him. Well, that was good to know. He wondered how he’d be feeling if she’d really tried? Yeah, he’d agree—she’d mucked things up royally.

 

 

> _You are the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. I wish with all my heart we could lock ourselves into the Room of Requirement and never come out. But we can’t. You have important things to do. And I’m so terrified for you that I know I would only be in the way. It wouldn’t be right. Haven’t you always said that we should follow Dumbledore’s example—do what’s right, not what’s easy? This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, so I know it has to be right._

Right? She thought this was _right_? He sprang to his feet and kicked the table dangerously close to the fire. How dare she use Dumbledore’s words against him like that? _You have important things to do._ And what right did she have to decide for him what he should be doing? What right did she have to put this off on him? Especially after all they’d shared in the Room of Requirement, how could she have the audacity to think she was doing the right thing? And she was doing it _for him_? Bollocks! She’d obviously chosen Dean, she was just using this as her excuse.

 

 

> _I hope one day you’ll forgive me enough that we can at least be friends again. I know I’ve given up the right to hope for more, but even so, no matter what, I’ll always love you._

_Ginny_

 

Harry snorted in derision. Love. She didn’t know the meaning of the word. He’d been manipulated too many times in his life not to recognize when someone was trying to play him. She didn’t want him, but she didn’t want to let go. She wanted things both ways, and he’d be damned if he was going to go along for the ride. If this was the way she showed her love, he wanted no part of it. And she could take her friendship straight to hell!

Crumpling the parchment back into a ball, he slammed it into the fire and clutched the ring to his chest for a moment before hurling it away in an explosion of rage. He followed it with a lamp, then a table, then a chair… Within moments, the room was destroyed. Splinters of wood and shards of glass littered the floor. He hadn’t bothered with magic; he’d needed the physical release.

She didn’t want him? Fine! She wanted him to do important things? Fine! Apparently that’s all he’d ever be good for anyway—saving people who meant nothing to him. He was finished with waiting around, letting others handle things that were obviously intended for him... _he_ was the Chosen One, wasn’t he? Well, he was ready to start making his own choices and he was choosing not to sit on his arse in a classroom anymore. The time had come to get moving.

Surveying his handiwork with satisfaction, he stomped through the debris and up the stairs to his room.

***

Like magic, a path opened before him through the throngs of people in the Ministry atrium. Everyone scurried out of his way, eyeing him as if he were mad. He supposed he did look a bit mad—his hair messier than usual, his face shadowed with stubble, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. But his robes were immaculately pressed and the Mokeskin pouch around his neck beneath them contained all of his important belongings... including his mother’s ring; he’d decided to keep it with him as a constant reminder of the foolishness of wishing for things he could never have. His personal business had been settled: authorization for Fleur to conduct his financial business, and letters to Andromeda and Ron and Hermione, to be delivered after he’d gone. He hadn’t slept, but he felt more clear-headed than he had in weeks, the barely-contained fury driving him toward his destiny.

He knew he was late for Robards’s weekly task-force meeting, but it wouldn’t matter once he got there. Things were going to change.

Summers was lounging against the wall next to the lifts, obviously waiting for him. “Oi, Potter. How’s it going?”

Harry just pressed the button.

Summers pushed off from the wall and lowered his voice. “Well?”

The lift arrived and Harry stepped in. “Let’s go.”

When they burst into the conference room, Harry was surprised to find Minister Shacklebolt addressing the group. No matter. It would save him a trip down the hall.

“Potter, where the bloody hell have you been?” Robards yelled.

“Getting ready to leave. I know where he is.”

“And what makes you think _you’re_ going after him?” Robards asked, leaning on the table towards Harry.

“Because _I_ know where he is—” Harry leaned on his side of the table and looked the Head Auror in the eye, “—and _you_ don’t.”

The group around the table gave a collective gasp of shock. Before Robards could explode, Shacklebolt intervened. “This meeting is adjourned. Everybody out.”

The field agents and intelligence team filed out quickly. Once they’d closed the door, only Shacklebolt, Robards, and Summers were left with Harry.

“Summers, you heard him. Out!” Robards bellowed.

A defiant jut to his chin, Harry moved to stand next to Summers. “He’s with me.” 

Robards glared at them for a moment and opened his mouth to retort when Shacklebolt interrupted.

“Everybody sit down.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” Harry said. “We won’t be here long.”

Shacklebolt and Robards exchanged a glance before the Minister turned to Harry.

“All right, then. Tell us what you know.”

“I think we need to discuss assignments, first.” Harry said. “I’m going. You can send along whoever you like, but I’m going, and I’m not coming back until we have him.”

“Harry, you’re still in training—”

“No! I’m finished with training. You can make me a full Auror, or I’ll go on my own. It makes no difference to me.”

Shacklebolt held up his hand to stop Robards’s imminent outburst.

“Harry, we can’t have a rogue agent running about. If you go on your own, you know we’ll have to bring you in.”

“Go ahead and try. I hid from Voldemort for a year. I can hide from you. And you still won’t know where Dolohov is,” Harry sneered. “Oh, and I’m sure the _Prophet_ would love to get that story, yeah? Don’t you know Rita Skeeter and I are best mates?”

The Minister studied him carefully for a moment, but Harry knew he had scored a direct hit. With post-war rebuilding still unstable, the last thing the Ministry needed right now was bad press, especially where it concerned the Saviour of the Wizarding World. But it didn’t really matter. Yes, he’d love to go after Dolohov with the full support and resources of the Ministry at his disposal, but he’d go without if he had to. Harry knew he’d win this test of wills—he held all of the cards, not the least of which was his inside information.

Shacklebolt sighed and ran a hand over his face. “What’s going on, Harry? What brought this on?” 

“Let’s just say I’m tired of being the Ministry show dog, the war trophy you put on display for all the visiting dignitaries. You and Scrimgeour—that’s all you’ve ever wanted of me.” Harry felt a thrill of satisfaction when Shacklebolt flinched at the comparison. “Well, I’m sick of it. I need to do something that matters. Dolohov is dangerous, and not just to Britain. I’m going after him. You can send me as part of a team, or I’ll go on my own. But I’m going, and you can’t stop me.”

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow at Robards.

“You can’t be serious,” Robards exploded. “You’re not really going to let him blackmail us like this, are you?”

The Minister gave Harry a thoughtful look before turning back to Robards. “Let’s think of it as a unique opportunity. Putting out the word that Harry Potter’s been fast-tracked into service could give us a huge advantage in the field.”

Robards threw up his hands and spewed a stream of profanity. “He’s not ready! He hasn’t even been through half the program yet. His concealment and disguise charms are rubbish. How the bloody hell is he going to track anyone when everyone in the country recognizes him?” 

“My concealment charms aren’t rubbish,” Harry said irritably. “I just can’t change my eyes.”

“You might as well not change anything, then,” Robards said. “Everyone knows those eyes. And what about your glasses? You can’t see a foot in front of your face without them—”

“Polyjuice.” Summers spoke quietly, but it had the effect of throwing a wet blanket on Robards’s tirade. “He could use Polyjuice.”

Harry shuddered. He hated the stuff, but it was the right answer. He nodded approval at Summers. “Exactly,” he said to Robards. “I can use Polyjuice. It’ll take care of my eyesight, too.”

Harry didn’t think it was possible for the Head Auror’s face to turn any redder—the color creeping up his neck actually had more of a purple cast to it. He looked ready to blow up, much like Aunt Marge had before Harry’s third year at Hogwarts. 

“Gawain—” Shacklebolt’s voice held a warning.

“What about your tracking and stealth skills?” Robards bellowed, so angry that everyone stepped back to avoid the spittle spraying the room. “You might be top of the class in Defense, but your T&S grades are pathetic—”

“That’s why I’m taking Summers,” Harry said calmly. “He’s top of the class in T&S. We’ll make a good team.”

Shacklebolt stepped in as Robards lunged at Harry. “Everyone _sit_ down and _calm_ down. _Now_!”

It was a direct order intended to be obeyed immediately; Harry wouldn’t have thought twice about disobeying if he hadn’t thought he was close to getting what he wanted. Robards stomped about his side of the room for a moment before flinging himself into a chair, arms crossed, muttering obscenities under his breath. Harry and Summers sat on the edges of their seats, ready to leave if things took a turn for the worse. The Minister settled into his chair and folded his hands on the table.

“Harry,” he began, his tone conciliatory. “It’s one thing for us to fast-track you into the field. It’s another thing to send Summers with you. You need to be paired with an experienced Auror, someone who can continue your training. A mentor, if you will.”

“Right. What you really mean is someone who can keep an eye on me. Make sure I’m not getting out of line, doing something that might actually make a difference. This is just another ploy to keep me on your leash. Summers goes with me, or we go without Ministry authority.” Summers kept silent, apparently willing to follow Harry’s lead since they hadn’t discussed any of this. 

Harry held Shacklebolt’s eyes with a determined stare. The Minister rubbed his chin, considering his options in the negotiation.

“All right. Summers can go,” Shacklebolt silenced Robards’s protest with a stern look before turning back to Harry. “But you must also take a seasoned Auror with you—someone of your own choosing, of course.” 

Harry held the Minister’s gaze for another moment before turning to Summers, eyebrows raised in question. Summers shrugged his acceptance.

“All right,” Harry said. “But we leave today. I have information about Dolohov’s whereabouts, but he won’t be there long. Tomorrow is our best chance.”

***

Even if they did remind him of his Gryffindor Quidditch uniform, Harry felt conspicuous parading through the Ministry in his new red Auror robes with the photographers clicking away all around him. But it was part of the compromise he’d struck with Shacklebolt.

He’d always thought red a ridiculous color for Aurors; much too eye-catching to wear on the trail of a Dark wizard. He supposed that was why he’d never seen Moody or Tonks in them. But it was what they were expected to wear for official occasions and Shacklebolt seemed to think Harry’s promotion fit that description, even though, much to Harry’s relief, the Minister had reluctantly agreed to forego a ceremony. Harry was willing to give Shacklebolt a bit of positive press, but the minute he was away from the Ministry, the robes were changing to a subtle black or dark green.

With Robards’s ongoing objections and obstacles, it had taken most of the day to get through all of the negotiations and preparations: briefing the larger team, getting a month’s supply of Polyjuice and a batch of hair from the Ministry contact at a Muggle barber shop, gathering other tools and supplies. Harry and Summers had chosen veteran Auror Hector Ingalls to help them get the lay of the land before they summoned the rest of the team for the raid. Ingalls had taught a couple of their tracking and stealth classes; they got on well with him and thought his surveillance skills would round out their team nicely.

The Ministry workday was winding down when Harry, Summers, and Ingalls headed for the Apparition point that would take them to the International Portkey station. It had been a long day and Harry was feeling the effects of his sleepless night, but he was glad to have a purpose. And he was glad to be leaving England. He’d had to push away thoughts of Ginny only a few times during the day—well, more than a few maybe, but not as many as he’d had to over the past month. Getting away and focusing on the search for Dolohov would make escaping thoughts of her easier. He could leave his dashed hopes and dreams in a heap at Grimmauld Place and get back to the business of saving the world.

“Harry! Harry, wait!”

He stopped with a grimace and waited for Hermione to catch up without turning to face her. He’d hoped to get away without having to see anyone he knew.

“I’ll catch up in a minute,” he told Summers and Ingalls. They gave him a sympathetic look and continued on their way.

He turned just as Hermione arrived breathlessly at his side. “Harry, your robes! They’ve promoted you? Already? What happened?”

He pulled her to the side of the corridor to get them out of the pedestrian traffic flowing about them and out of the direct line of the cameras. Ducking his head so he could talk without being overheard, he said quietly against her ear, “I found out where Dolohov is. We’re going after him.”

She pulled back to give him a worried look. “But your training—”

“I’m finished with training. I told Robards and Shacklebolt that they could send me or I’d go without their blessing and take my information with me.”

“But—” She stopped and searched his eyes for a moment. “This is about Ginny, isn’t it?”

“This is about catching a Dark wizard,” he said tightly and gestured at his robes. “I’m an Auror, Hermione. This is what I do. It’s who I am.”

Pressing her lips together as if she were trying to hold in her words, she looked across the room at Summers and Ingalls, before turning back to Harry. “So when will you be back? You’ll be home for Christmas, won’t you?”

Harry flexed his jaw searching for the right words. “I’ll be back when my job is done.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You’re not coming back, are you? Even if you catch him tomorrow, you’re not coming back.”

“I have to go,” he said. “Tell Ron—”

She grabbed his arm to stop him. “You can’t do this. This isn’t going to solve anything, Harry. You can’t go like this.” 

“And what good would staying do? What would it change?” Harry’s voice had become loud enough that Summers and Ingalls looked up, and several of the people passing nearby slowed down to see what was happening. With a single impatient swipe of his hand, Harry cast a Confundus Charm that sent everyone on their way and a Muffliato spell that would keep the rest of their conversation private.

Hermione blinked in surprise, but remained quiet when he continued as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary.

“Right. It won’t change anything. Apparently this—” he held up a handful of red robe, “this is all I’m good for. This is the only thing anyone wants of me. So I’ll go be what I’m supposed to be.”

“No, Harry. It’s not all you’re good for. We’ll miss you. We’re your family. Please—you can’t leave like this. What do I tell Ron? What am I going to tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and the rest of the family? They’ll be so upset.”

The mention of Ron put a chink in his resolve, but it was quickly repaired by her mention of the elder Weasleys. They’d made it clear he could never really be a part of the family now that Ginny had shut him out.

“I’ll write to you and Ron,” he said. “It might not be often. I don’t know where I’ll be.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re really leaving, aren’t you? You’re leaving for good.”

The look on her face shot a pain through his heart, but he ignored it. If he didn’t get away soon, he wouldn’t be able to do what he needed to do. He looked across at Summers and Ingalls waiting for him, then turned back to her with a sigh. “I have to go. Tell Ron I said goodbye.”

She grabbed his arm as he started to turn away. “What about Ginny? What should I tell her?”

His voice was icy as he stared into the distance. “Nothing. There’s nothing left to say.”

Leaving her standing there, he joined Summers and Ingalls and Disapparated without looking back.

***

Ginny lifted her head at the sound of raised voices in the shop. She'd been sitting at the desk for the past several hours, head on her arms, mind in a trance. Not that she’d intended to—she had actually meant to work when she came to the shop to escape her mother's probing questions. But she’d found she couldn’t make her mind focus and had, instead, just been sitting and staring into space for most of the day. True to his word, George had made sure no one disturbed her... until now.

She glanced at the clock; the shop should be closed by now. Everything was quiet except for the distressed voice—was that Hermione?—echoing through the outer room. Ginny got up and stood behind the curtain to listen.

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Ron was asking.

“Gone. Away. He left.” Hermione was more upset than Ginny had heard her since... well, ever.

Ginny peeked around the curtain to see what was happening. Logical, always-in-control Hermione was beside herself, sobbing into Ron’s chest while he looked helplessly over her head at George. Verity and Lionel stood uncertainly apart from the group. None of this made sense, unless… Ginny’s stomach twisted into a tight knot—they were talking about Harry. She moved without thinking into the space behind the counter.

“Hermione, calm down. I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Ron said. “Start over. What happened?”

She could hardly talk through her tears. “I saw him. As I was leaving the Ministry, I saw him. He was wearing red Auror robes—”

Ron's eyes went wide. “Full Auror robes? But—”

“I know!” Hermione swiped at her eyes and conjured a tissue to blow her nose as she tried to control herself. “He’d forced Shacklebolt and Robards to send him into the field. He’s going after Dolohov again.”

The knot in Ginny’s stomach jerked violently and she had to breathe deeply to keep from vomiting on her feet.

“Well, it’ll be different this time. He’ll be ready for them and he’ll be home before Christmas, right?” Ron didn’t sound or look very confident. Hermione opened and closed her mouth, but couldn't seem to speak as the tears started again. Ron’s voice grew panicked. “What? Hermione, what’s wrong?”

She choked on her sobs again before she could get it all out. “He said... he’s not... he’s not coming back. Even if... when—”

“No!” The word erupted from Ginny’s throat before she could stop it. She put her hands over her mouth and stared back at their startled faces. “I didn't mean to. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to.”

“Ginny, love, don’t—” George reached out to her. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is. It is...” she backed against the wall. “I didn’t think...oh, Merlin, I didn't think... I didn’t mean to...”

“Ginny—” Ron started toward her, a confused look on his face.

“Wait,” Hermione put a hand on his arm and narrowed her eyes at Ginny. With a gentle voice, she walked slowly across the room, as one would approach a hippogriff that hadn’t yet bowed. “Ginny, what do you mean you ‘didn’t mean to’? What did you do?”

Ginny couldn’t get air into her lungs. She closed her eyes and gasped for breath as she tried to speak. When the words finally came out, they were breathy, barely audible. “I wrote a letter… last night… I didn’t think… I sent it back…” Her voice trailed off into a whimper.

“You sent it back? By owl?” Hemione’s voice was full of despair. “Oh, Ginny, no. Not now, not like that...”

“Sent what back?” Ron was growing impatient. “You’ve said that before. What are you on about?”

Ginny slid down the wall and buried her face in her arms around her folded knees, moaning hopelessly. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think... I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Hermione finally whispered the answer. “Harry’s ring. She sent back Harry’s ring.”

Except for Ginny’s sobs, the silence was thick for several long moments. Then Ron’s furious bellow brought her head up.

“YOU SELFISH BITCH! You mean to tell me Harry gave you a ring and, after pushing him away for more than a month, you sent it back to him _now_ — _by owl_?”

Ginny had never seen any of her brothers look at her with such venom. Everyone else in the room seemed frozen. She tried to think of the words to explain, to wipe that look off of his face. Her voice caught and cracked, the words running together as she tried to get them out. “I couldn’t... I couldn’t keep it. It wasn’t right. It was his mum’s. I—”

“YOU SENT IT BACK BY OWL?” Ron exploded. “You didn’t even have the decency to talk to him first? Are you _completely_ mental? Oh, right. I forgot. YOU ARE!” Ginny cowered against the wall as he advanced on her.

George stepped between them and put a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Ron! That’s enough!”

“Damn right, that’s enough!” He tried to push past, yelling at Ginny over George’s shoulder. “You _knew_ how he would take it. You _know_ what he does with stuff like this. But no—all you can think about is yourself. All you can do is feel sorry for poor, pitiful little Ginny. I’ve tried to be patient and understanding, but this is too much. When are you going to start thinking about someone other than yourself? You’re pathetic. Do you know that? You’re—”

George gave Ron a shove. “I _said_ leave her alone.”

“Ron, let’s go—” Hermione tried to pull him toward the door.

“Get off me! Just leave me alone!” He jerked away from them. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door, yelling over his shoulder, “I’ve had it with her! I’ve had it with everyone! This is mental. We shouldn’t be doing this to him.”

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, following him.

“To find him,” Ron growled as if she shouldn’t have had to ask.

“Ron, he's gone. It’s too late,” she said, her voice filled with misery.

“Then I'll talk to the Minister. I’ll find out where he is and go after him,” Ron said and, with a final withering look at Ginny, slammed out of the door. Hermione cast an apologetic glance over her shoulder and dashed after him.

Ginny dropped her head back into her arms. When George put his arms around her, she buried her face in his shoulder and gave in to her sobs.


	21. Getting On With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Harry throws himself into his work, his absence takes its toll on the Weasleys, while Ginny has to make a big decision.

Harry crouched behind the tree, every muscle tensed for action, one leg bouncing with anticipation. The past two days had been one agonizing wait after another. Too much idle time had left him struggling to stay focused on the task at hand; his mind kept drifting back to the events that had led him here. He was beyond ready to work off his frustrations on a few Dark wizards.

As he shifted his position, his flask of Polyjuice Potion pressed into his hip. He should probably take another dose before all hell broke loose, but he hated the way even the maintenance doses rippled through him like snakes writhing through his insides. For two knuts, he’d let the potion wear off; he’d rather face Dolohov as himself anyway. But he’d promised the Minister he wouldn’t take unnecessary chances—and, besides, he didn’t want to have to worry about losing his glasses in the middle of a battle. With a grimace, he pulled the flask from his pocket.

“Hey, Potter!”

Harry paused with the flask at his lip and squinted through the darkness at Summers behind the next tree. “Yeah?”

“I thought this party didn’t start for another three hours.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why are the guests arriving early?”

As Harry whipped around to look at the cottage below them, he absently capped the flask and tucked it back into his pocket. Three wizards were entering the building and two more Apparated in as he watched, just the beginning of a steady stream of arrivals.

“I’m going to kill that bloody—” he muttered.

“You reckon they’re onto us?” Summers asked.

Harry thought for a moment about his conversation with Malfoy. “No. Dolohov’s been massively paranoid since the last raid. I think if they knew we were here, they’d have cancelled the meeting—or moved it. If they were going to set a trap, they’d have left it at the same time.”

“I agree.” Ingalls shifted quietly to crouch between them. “We should probably work out an alternate plan while we wait for Robards and the team.”

“The Portkeys don’t activate for another half hour,” Summers said. “They could be gone by then.”

“We have to take that chance,” Ingalls said. “After what we went through to get approval for those International Portkeys, there’s no way we can change them now. We’ll just have to wait. There’s already too many of them for just the three—”

“I’m not letting Dolohov get away again,” Harry interrupted without taking his eyes from the growing activity below. “I’ll go after him by myself, if I have to.”

Harry could tell Summers and Ingalls were exchanging looks behind him. It felt almost like having Ron and Hermione with him again, but not as comforting.

“We’re waiting for the team.” Although it wasn’t _quite_ an order, the authority in Ingalls’s voice made Harry bristle. He didn’t argue because it didn’t matter—they weren’t going to hold him back this time.

As they settled into an uneasy watch, Harry decided that the tiny shack had to be magically bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Far too many people had gone in than it should be able to accommodate, although Malfoy’s estimate of two dozen seemed about right this time. Dolohov hadn’t arrived yet, but after ten minutes Harry could stand the waiting no longer.

“I’m going down. If we’re not going to try to stop them, then we at least need to know what they’re saying.” He pulled his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and stood.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Potter,” Ingalls said.

“Do you have a better one?” Harry asked before swirling the cloak over his head.

“Yeah. We wait,” Ingalls said—it sounded more like an order this time. When Harry didn’t respond, Ingalls’s whisper took on an insistent tone. “Potter? Where are you? Potter, come back here…”

The hissing diatribe faded into the distance as Harry stole through the trees to the clearing below and slipped into the shack behind the latest arrivals. He eased along the edge of the room to keep from being detected, regretting that he hadn’t made up the lessons on Translation Charms he’d missed during his captivity—he couldn’t understand a single word of conversation around him. Finally recognizing a few words of English, he gravitated toward them.

“Why’d they change the time? What’s going on?”

“Dunno. I just got an owl that said to come now. I learned a long time ago not to ask questions.”

The first wizard grunted and the two watched the rest of the crowd in silence. After several frustrating minutes, Harry began toying with the idea of casting an Imperius Curse to get them talking again, then mentally kicked himself when he realized what he was doing. After falling onto that slippery slope during the war and seeing how loosely the rules were being followed since, he’d promised himself not to stoop to that level again.

“Lot of brats tonight,” the first wizard finally said.

“Yeah. I hear they’ve been recruiting at Durmstrang. Something about training them up right.”

Harry surveyed the room. They were right. Half of the wizards present were about his own age and several looked to be no more than fourth or fifth year.

“Wish they’d got a few birds” the first wizard said. “Wouldn’t mind initiatin’ a bit o’ young cunt.”

The second wizard laughed. “Arse is as good as cunt in my book. Maybe better.”

Harry’s simmering anger flared. These kids couldn’t possibly know what they were getting into. He was suddenly enraged with a determination to stop this at any cost.

The door burst open and Dolohov made his grand entrance flanked by two hooded escorts. The room grew quiet as he took his time looking over the crowd.

“Yaxley! All accounted for?” he barked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Yaxley grunted from his post beside the door. “All here.”

Dolohov held his wand to his throat “ _Linguareddo_!”

Harry recognized the charm—the one he hadn’t learned yet—and knew everyone would now be able to understand whatever Dolohov said no matter what language they spoke.

“Greetings,” Dolohov announced with great flair as he smiled broadly around the room—the expression looked more predatory than friendly. “And, to our new young friends, welcome. We hope you will find your decision to join us very… rewarding.”

Harry began inching cautiously back around the room to get closer to Dolohov and be ready when the opportunity came to make a move.

“Allow me to introduce my associates,” Dolohov continued. “You’ve already met Yaxley. He will be your contact for future endeavors.” Harry made a mental note to contain Yaxley quickly so the boys in this group weren’t plunged further into Dark magic—and other horrors. Dolohov gestured to the burly wizard on his left who pushed back his hood to reveal a big blond head that Harry recognized well. “This is Rowle, our...” Dolohov hesitated, searching for the right word, “...negotiator,” he finished with a smile, then gestured to the right. “And _this_ is our... banker... Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry gasped aloud as the other hood dropped away to reveal a second head of even blonder hair. Malfoy had said he wouldn’t be here. What was he playing at? This was going to complicate things. Harry’s mind took off, trying to devise the best strategy to get Malfoy out. He struggled to focus when Dolohov began to speak again.

“We are fortunate tonight to offer a unique opportunity for our new initiates. It seems we are expecting some uninvited guests this evening…” Dolohov swept a speculative gaze over the group, “…thanks to a traitor in our midst.”

A low murmur ran through the crowd. Harry tightened his grip on his wand—Malfoy had been found out. Would nothing ever go as planned? Harry wished he could leave Malfoy to his own devices, but escape from the Isle of Drear had to be worth at least a life debt.

Malfoy’s expression remained curiously impassive. Didn’t he realize what was coming? Was he under an Imperius Curse? Heart pounding against his ribs, Harry prepared to make his move.

“Yes, a traitor,” Dolohov said, silencing the group. “But we shall make the most of this opportunity. The change in the time of our meeting will allow us to show our new members how to set a trap. But before we begin our preparations, let’s have a demonstration for our newcomers. Let’s show them what happens to those who betray us.”

Harry moved without thinking. Dropping his cloak, he shoved Malfoy out of the way and aimed his wand at Dolohov. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

All hell broke loose. Dolohov dodged Harry’s spell. Summers and Ingalls and the team crashed through the door. Spellfire exploded in blinding flashes. And everything melted into a kaleidoscopic blur as Harry’s Polyjuice wore off.

Fumbling frantically for his glasses, Harry ducked his way through the battle. Dolohov was backing toward the door using the youngest Durmstrang recruit as a shield. Harry had to reach him before he got away.

As Dolohov kicked the door open behind him, he shot a purple spell that whizzed past Harry’s shoulder; someone crashed to the floor behind him. Hoping it wasn’t an Auror, Harry charged between two battling wizards. Returning Dolohov’s fire was out of the question with the terrified boy in the way. Through one lens of his dangling glasses, Harry saw Dolohov’s wicked grin and knew without having to think what was coming. He launched himself at the pair and held on.

The crunch of fresh snow was unnaturally loud in the sudden silence as the three of them landed in a small clearing lit brightly by the full winter moon. Harry rolled quickly into the shadows, just managing to snatch his glasses from mid-air as they slipped from his ear. He slid them into place and sprang to his feet, silently casting an anti-Apparition spell over the area within the ring of trees.

“You can’t get away, Dolohov,” Harry shouted as he circled the pair. “Let him go. This is between you and me.”

Dolohov turned slowly, keeping his hostage in front of him. “I find him useful,” he said with a sneer. The boy’s terror-filled eyes shone like huge black pools. From the look on his pale face, the stranglehold on his neck was probably the only thing keeping him from puking—he’d already wet himself... and probably worse.

Harry shielded off the barrage of red, purple, and green spells Dolohov sent over the boy’s shoulder.

“ _Incarcerous_!” Harry tried to bind them both to keep the boy from getting hurt, but Dolohov easily deflected the spell.

“That’s your problem, Potter. You’re too soft. If you want to get the job done, you have to be willing to make sacrifices.”

Before Harry could react, Dolohov pushed the boy away and sent a jet of green light after him. The body was lifeless before it hit the ground with a thud.

Time stopped. Empty eyes stared skyward.

Harry exploded.

Rage and hatred fueled the furious torrent of spells he cast, all colors of the rainbow—including tell-tale green.

The duel lasted only moments. Dolohov deftly fended off the frenzied attack, laughing giddily as he backed to the edge of the clearing. With one final volley, he crossed the bounds of the anti-Apparition spell and disappeared.

Harry’s final blast turned a tree to splinters.

He dropped to his knees with a wail of despair that echoed through the forest. The anger and frustration that had driven him for the past two days drained away in a rush and he crumpled to the ground, empty, defeated. He’d done it again. He’d allowed his emotions to rule and caused another needless death. He’d bollixed up even the thing he was supposed to be best at, the one thing he was destined to do… the only thing he was good for.

Wet cold seeped into his bones as he lay on the frozen ground, unable to gather the will to get up. He might never move from this place. What would be the point? He should stay here so he wouldn’t endanger anyone else, so he couldn’t destroy another life. Dean had been right; he was poison, a threat to those around him by his very existence—especially to the people he loved most. His mind roamed through the events of the past four years, revisiting all of the people who’d died because of him, all of the lives he’d mucked up. How could defeating Voldemort possibly make up for any of that?

And now he had another death on his head, another innocent life taken because he hadn’t been quick enough, smart enough, dispassionate enough...

Out of nowhere, a smoky image arose so vividly in Harry’s mind that he almost believed he was seeing it before his eyes. Cedric’s voice echoed in his head:

_Harry… take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents…_

With great effort, Harry pushed himself to a sitting position and squinted at the shadowy form across the clearing.

_take my body back… take my body back… take my body back…_

Cedric’s voice was nearly audible now and growing more insistent, urging Harry to move. Unable to work up the strength to stand, Harry crawled to the body and sat back on his heels next to it, studying the young face. Terror was etched into the boy’s expression. Harry’s breath hitched; he had felt that kind of fear at that age and had lived through it only by a miracle. Why couldn’t he have delivered such a miracle for this boy?

The blank eyes accused him. Just like Cedric’s.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and lifted a shaking hand to close the lids.

Without warning, the emotions he’d been holding at bay for more than a month broke free and attacked with the force of a Hungarian Horntail. Harry could do nothing to turn back the overwhelming sorrow that shook him. He cried for the boy before him, but even more, he cried for the futures that they’d both lost. Everything he’d ever wanted had been right in his hand and he had managed to let it all slip through his fingers—hell, he’d thrown it all away with one wrong choice. He didn’t know what was right anymore. And nothing was easy.

An eternity passed—or maybe only moments, it was all the same—before the brutal emotions released their grip on him.

_… take my body back… take my body back… take my body back…_

Cedric’s voice beat a rhythm in his brain. Harry knew what he had to do. He couldn’t undo what had been done, but he could do the right thing now. He _should_ do the right thing. But how could he face this boy’s parents? How could he face Robards and the others? For the briefest of moments, Harry envied the boy who no longer had to worry about working out how to do the right thing… or how to make someone love him.

_… take my body back… take my body back… take my body back…_

Harry closed his eyes. The images of his parents joined Cedric in his mind—then Sirius and Remus and Dumbledore—all watching him expectantly. He knew what they wanted. He considered telling them all to go to hell, that he was tired of doing the right thing, that he was going to do only what _he_ wanted from now on.

But he knew in the end he’d do what they expected of him... what he expected of himself.

With a sigh of resignation, he stood and lifted the boy in his arms, then stepped and turned.

***

Harry stared through the window without seeing the scene beyond… the same scene he’d been staring at for days. A scene so different from the one he’d retreated to within himself…

Peace and solitude swirled about him like a warm fog as he waited on a bench in the clean, empty netherworld that vaguely resembled King’s Cross station. He had no idea what he was waiting for—perhaps for Dumbledore to return… perhaps for a train to come and take him away… perhaps for nothing at all. No matter. The waiting didn’t bother him. No one was waiting for him. He could wait forever. 

As if from a great distance, Harry heard the door open and close. Footsteps approached. He remained still. They likely wanted to pour another potion into him or try to make him answer stupid questions, or bring him back to the real world. He didn’t intend to return from his secluded haven any time soon… if ever. The world could sod off.

“Harry.” 

Even though he’d spoken softly, the Minister’s deep baritone bounced off the walls of the small, sterile room. The room where they kept nutters.

Harry ignored him.

“Been like that for nearly four days now.” Robards’s whisper was gruff and filled with frustration. “Can’t get a thing out of him.”

When Shacklebolt moved around to stand in front of the window, Harry dropped his eyes to the table in front of him. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“Summers is awake. He’s asking for you.”

Dropping his head into his hands, Harry heaved a shuddering sigh of relief. At least he didn’t have to answer for another death. Summers had taken the curse that Dolohov had intended for Harry just before they’d Apparated to the clearing. The same purple flame curse—Dolohov’s signature curse, apparently—that had injured Hermione in the Department of Mysteries, the one that Madam Pomfrey had said would’ve been worse if he’d been able to voice it aloud. Summers had got the fully voiced version and had nearly died from massive internal bleeding before they could get him to the Bulgarian wizarding hospital.

Afterward, Harry had shut down.

And they’d put him here, in this room where they could watch him, where two Mind Healers had taken turns having a go at him. A room heavily warded to keep him from hurting himself and keep him from getting out to hurt anyone else. A room that Harry knew that he could leave with little effort, even without his wand, if he really wanted to.

He didn’t. What would be the point?

“Harry.”

They just wouldn’t give up. Harry ran his fingers under his glasses to cover his eyes. He could wait them out.

“Harry, we need to know what happened when you left the cottage. How did the boy die? What happened to Dolohov?”

The Minister’s voice was gentle, but Harry kept silent. If he waited long enough, they’d go away.

“We tested your wand, Potter.” Robards’s voice was not gentle. “You cast the killing curse nearly a dozen times.”

The silence stretched. If he waited long enough…

“We know you didn’t kill the boy, Harry,” Shacklebolt said.

“Good as.” The words ripped from Harry’s throat of their own accord, his voice scratchy from disuse. He raised his head and looked dully at the wall. “I didn’t stop it.”

Moving cautiously, as if he were afraid Harry might bolt, the Minister sat in the chair across the table. “I’m sure you tried.”

Harry closed his eyes, clinging to his inner refuge. The edges of his netherworld were fading—they were forcing him back to reality.

“What happened?” Robards was losing patience. Ignoring Shacklebolt’s murmured warning, the Head Auror pounded his fist on the table. “We need to know what happened to Dolohov. Did he say anything? Give any clues about where he was going?”

Eyes still closed, Harry didn’t even flinch. He was back in the clearing… _Dolohov laughing as he stole the life of a child… empty black eyes staring into the night… helpless rage and devastating defeat sucking out his own soul…_

“That’s enough, Gawain,” Shacklebolt said. He waited several beats before speaking again. “Harry, anything you can tell us would help. We need to find him before he strikes again.”

The silence stretched.

“Told you we shouldn’t have let him blackmail us. Knew he wasn’t ready,” Robards muttered as he paced before the door.

Harry’s hands balled into fists on the table. A spark of fury ignited deep in his gut. They didn’t understand. They hadn’t seen the look in Dolohov’s eyes when…

“Pansy-arsed little brat. You’d think after fighting in a war, he’d—”

“SHUT UP!” Harry jumped from his chair and flung it across the room, barely missing Robards’s head. It hit the wall and fell in pieces to the floor. “JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!”

For several moments that stretched into forever, the only sound in the room was Harry’s ragged breathing.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Robards finally said.

Harry glared at him. Shacklebolt stepped back to the wall, but drew his wand and maintained a ready stance.

“Get out of here! Leave me alone!” Harry growled.

Robards snorted. “Yeah, thought so. Gonna quit now, aren’t yeh? Takin’ the easy way out.”

“I GOT A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY KILLED! He did it because of _me_!”

Robards stepped up and got into Harry’s face. “DAMN RIGHT, HE DID! You want to know why? Because he’d done his homework. He knew how you’d react. You think Voldemort didn’t make sure his Death Eaters knew everything there was to know about you? Hell, he probably had them watching Pensieve memories of your every move since you were born! Dolohov was working you, Potter. ‘Constant vigilance’ might be the first watchword, but ‘know your enemy’ is a close second. He would’ve killed that boy no matter what. It was just his good fortune that he could use it to unnerve you…” The rest of Robards’s rant faded into background gibberish.

_He’d done his homework…watching Pensieve memories…_

The words cut through the fog in Harry’s brain.

_That’s your problem, Potter. You’re too soft. If you want to get the job done, you have to be willing to make sacrifices._

Dolohov knew his enemy. Harry didn’t.

Hadn’t Dumbledore spent the better part of a year teaching him how important it was to know what made Voldemort tick… to know his enemy?

The fog whisked away and his mission became vividly clear. Steely determination encased him like armor.

With a single flick of his wrist, Harry summoned and repaired his chair, startling Robards into silence. Without preamble, Harry sat down and began his story.

***

Christmas was a somber affair. Fred’s death would’ve been enough to dampen the holiday spirit, but this was far worse—as if they’d had another death in the family.

When the time had come to join everyone in the sitting room, Ginny had nearly come undone. But with a death-grip on George’s hand, she’d managed to tuck herself into a corner on the floor by the couch where she wouldn’t have to look at it and remember, and she’d been able to breathe again. Exchanging gifts was almost bearable until everyone got to their presents from Harry. He’d spent extravagantly: front row tickets and backstage passes to a Celestina Warbeck concert for Mum; for Dad, a set of twelve books explaining how all manner of Muggle things worked; Bill, Charlie and George got Hungarian Horntail-hide boots; Percy, a set of Fwooper quills; and perpetually-warm salamander skin gloves for Hermione and Fleur. When Ron opened his broom, he stared at it silently for several moments, then laid it on the floor and walked from the room. With a sad sigh, Hermione shrank it and put it in her pocket.

Ginny almost couldn’t bring herself to open her present from Harry—especially with everyone pretending not to watch. Her hands were shaking so badly, it took several tries to get the ribbon off. Inside was the most beautiful cloak she’d ever seen, its velvety chocolate fabric shimmering with flecks of red and gold when the light hit it just right. It was likely the most expensive thing she’d ever owned. But the way Fleur was watching, Ginny was certain Harry didn’t even know he’d given her a gift, much less chosen it for her. Smoothing the wrapping back around it, she tucked it at the bottom of her stack of presents and tried not to look at the unopened gifts for Harry sitting under the tree in silent accusation.

Mum did her best to keep Christmas dinner cheerful—from the sad, haunted look she wore, her heart obviously wasn’t in it. For her sake, everyone tried to appear happy and keep the conversation light, but their smiles were strained and their laughter hollow. At one point, they all shared their favorite stories about Fred, which actually seemed to brighten the mood for a bit, in spite of the tears.

Harry’s name almost came up several times. When it did, whoever was speaking would stop at the last second and change what they’d meant to say—or stop talking altogether, leaving a heavy, awkward silence hanging over the table like a thick, choking smoke, until someone else came up with a completely unrelated comment to change the course of the conversation. Each time, Ginny felt them all sneaking glances to check her reaction. She kept her eyes lowered through most of the meal.

None of them ever said it outright, but she knew they all blamed her for Harry’s absence. Even her mother was distant and cool, although she said and did all of the right things. Only George seemed sincerely supportive. The worst of the lot was Ron.

Of all of her brothers, Ron was the one who had never treated her like a china doll or a stuffed animal to be protected or coddled. Bill and Charlie had always been over-affectionate and overindulgent. Bossy Percy had always had a soft spot for her, even when he was inflexible with everyone else. And even though Fred and George had teased her mercilessly, she had always known she could count on them no matter what.

But Ron had been her comrade in crime. Most of her earliest and favorite memories were of playing and studying and fighting and getting into mischief with Ron. They were the babies, the youngest boy and the only girl—he’d treated her as his equal and they’d been almost as inseparable as the twins until he had gone off to school. But by the time she’d followed him to Hogwarts, he had become best mates with Harry and had fallen in love with Hermione (although he didn’t know it yet). Ginny had felt abandoned and alone—so she’d sought comfort in the magical diary that had nearly been the death of her. Although she and Ron had never fully regained that early closeness, a bit of their special tie had always remained… until now.

After a week, Ron still wasn’t speaking to her and would only stay in the same room if they were having a meal. He hadn’t been able to convince the Minister to tell him where Harry had gone, and Ginny thought he had every right to be angry with her. She deserved it. How could she ask him to forgive her if she couldn’t forgive herself? She chanced a look at him at the opposite end of the table, sitting as far away from her as he could without leaving the room, sullenly playing with his food. Even from this distance, she could almost feel the hatred radiating off of him.

“I suppose we’ll need to start next week getting your things ready for school.” Mum broke into Ginny’s reverie, trying once more to draw her into the conversation.

Ginny drew a deep breath. She’d rather not do this here and now—she’d rather not do it at all—but what difference did it really make anyway? A row was inevitable, and maybe having it in front of everyone would be best. At least she wouldn’t have to revisit it with each of them later. Everyone already blamed her for Harry. One more disappointment shouldn’t be a great surprise.

“I’m not going back,” she said quietly.

The room couldn’t have become more still if Full Body Binds had been cast on everyone—she wondered if they’d all stopped breathing. Then, as they watched in dread, every muscle in her mother’s face slowly shifted from slack-jawed shock to rock-hard determination. Ginny steeled herself for the coming tirade as Mum stood, hands on her hips, to tower over her.

“ _NO!_ ” The word reverberated off the walls and rattled the windows. “NO, NO, NO! I will NOT stand aside for this again! You’re Head Girl and you’re going back to school and that’s final!”

Ginny cowered in her chair, her resolve wavering. But she’d got it started. Better to see it through now than have to start again later. She forced air into her lungs and plunged ahead.

“I sent my badge back. Professor McGonagall’s probably chosen someone else by now.”

At her mother’s howl of despair and outrage, Ginny wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to make herself as small as possible and ducking her head to hide behind her hair. She wanted to crawl under the table or bolt for the stairs, but she didn’t have it in her even to flee, much less to fight. She knew without a doubt that she would find herself on the Hogwarts Express when it left in two weeks’ time.

Mum was in her element. “I won’t have this, do you hear me? I won’t! Arthur, tell her this is utter nonsense.”

The room went quiet again as Ginny waited for her father’s confirmation of the decree, but it was Bill who spoke first.

“Mum, she’s been through a lot this year. Maybe she needs a rest.”

“A rest? A rest? What she needs is to get back to the business of living. All of us have been through a lot. It’s time to just get on with it.”

“But she’s of age,” Charlie chimed in. “She’s old enough to make a decision like this for herself.”

Ginny chanced a look through her lashes, lifting her head just enough to cast a grateful look at them. She was surprised to find everyone watching her with sympathy rather than the disgust she’d expected—well, everyone except Ron. He was frowning as he mutilated his mince pie with his fork. Ginny hadn’t really expected _anyone_ to come to her defense, but as her mother sputtered renewed protests, the last person she _ever_ expected to take her side spoke up.

“I’m quite certain given our connections at the Ministry—” Percy affected his most pompous posture to give no doubt about where those connections lay, “—arrangements could be made for her to take her NEWTs without having to finish school.”

“That’s enough!” Mum roared, silencing her elder sons with a glare that would stop a raging hippogriff. “Three of my sons—” Her voice hitched for a moment as she looked at George, but she cleared her throat and continued. “I will _not_ have half of my children leave school without their NEWTs!”

“Yeah, we NEWT-less pillocks are a sorry lot, eh, Ron?” A shadow crossed George’s face as he waited in vain for the amusing quip Fred would’ve supplied.

Ron ignored the question and mutinously concentrated on stabbing his pie into pulp. Hermione reached for his other hand, but he jerked it away from her and dropped it into his lap; she bit her lip and frowned into her plate.

Why was Ron angry with Hermione? Ginny had only a moment to puzzle over them before her mother launched into her rant again, “—and just _what_ do you intend to do with yourself? If you think you’re going to lie about here—”

“I’m not!” Ginny jutted her chin forward, drawing strength from her brothers’s support. She cast a nervous glance at Ron and a pleading one at George. “I’m not planning to lie about. I... I thought I could help at the shop... at least until I can find something else…”

As their mother started again, George gave her a wink and a subtle nod. Ron’s ears turned nearly purple with rage. With a strange look at Ron and a heavy sigh, Hermione waited for Mum to take a breath, then raised her voice to be heard down the table.

“I’m going back next term, Ginny. I really wish you’d come with me.”

Silence thundered through the room. Ron banged his fork onto the table and slammed out the door to the garden—this obviously wasn’t the first time he had heard this news. Hermione didn’t move as she watched him go with a mixture of resolve and regret. She kept her eye on the door as if hoping he would come back, but after a moment, sagged in acceptance.

Ginny suddenly saw Ron’s anger over Harry in a new light: Harry and Hermione were the two people who meant more to Ron than anyone—maybe even family—and he was losing them both at once. Ginny sank lower in her chair. Ron had been right to call her a selfish bitch. She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery she hadn’t paid proper attention to anyone else’s troubles. And now, she’d added to them. She wanted to run after him, to throw herself at his feet and beg him to forgive her. But she knew he wasn’t ready yet and she wondered if he ever would be.

Dad finally spoke with quiet authority into the heavy silence. “I think that we should table this discussion for now.” Standing, he put a soothing arm around Mum’s shoulders as she continued to glare at her children. “This has been a difficult year. We’ve had enough trouble and sorrow to last us a lifetime. But it’s Christmas. Let’s set our problems aside for a bit and think about the blessings that we have and the new life we’ll celebrate this year.” He tipped his head at Bill and Fleur. Waving his wand to fill everyone’s glasses, he lifted his in a toast. “To life.”

“To life,” everyone echoed as Hermione quietly slipped out of the kitchen door.

***

The flames danced in the grate as Ginny stared without really seeing them. She lay on her stomach on the couch in George’s flat, just as she had for the better part of every day since Christmas.

She’d fallen into a new routine: arrive at seven o’clock to tally the previous day’s receipts, tidy the shop and storeroom, then, before Ron and the customers arrived, go up to the flat to spend the rest of the day in front of the fire. It was the perfect situation—she could be a bit useful, but not have to spend the day rowing with her mother or enduring Ron’s contempt. Or, at least, that was the way she planned it to work. Most days she didn’t get to the tidying. Some days she didn’t even get through the tallying. And some days she went straight to the couch. But she tried. And George let her be, no matter how much or how little she got done.

Lying on the couch was her favorite part. She could wallow in her sorrow and beat herself up endlessly without having to answer to anyone. But she also had plenty of time to think... which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

She had realized, to her great dismay, that sending Harry away had been the biggest mistake of her life—even worse than writing in Tom Riddle’s diary—and she could do absolutely nothing about it. She’d sent him away because she couldn’t handle the endless worry about him being in danger or the attention from the press and the rest of the wizarding world. But, even with him gone, none of those things had changed.

Now, she was more worried about him than ever and even if he _could_ let her know that he was safe, he wouldn’t. And no one else would give her news about him, either. Not that she would dare to ask. She had to make do with listening at corners and pretending to sleep in her chair in the kitchen so she could eavesdrop on conversations. Her parents had mentioned just last night that Harry had apparently visited Teddy briefly on Christmas day, even though he hadn’t contacted anyone else, not even Ron and Hermione—they had since received a letter, but hadn’t shared its contents with anyone where Ginny could listen. She had no idea where he was or how the search for Dolohov was going, and the need to know was becoming an obsession—but she had no right to ask and pride wouldn’t let her.

The press hadn’t left her alone, either—Harry’s departure had only added fuel to the fire. Ginny had come down for breakfast the day after Christmas to find Ron sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. Or rather, sitting at the table with the paper spread in front of him. He’d really been watching the stairs, tapping his fingers on the table, waiting for her to come down. As soon as she’d entered the kitchen, he’d made a great show of holding the paper in front of him as if he was reading the front-page story.

“Well!” he’d said with heavy sarcasm. “Hard to believe that the _Prophet_ actually got the story right for once.”

With that, he’d pushed the newspaper across the table and watched her face as she’d cautiously picked it up.

 

**_Potter Leaves Britain: Is broken heart to blame?_ **

> _As previously reported, war hero Harry Potter has left Great Britain, presumably to begin his Auror service early._
> 
> _“We saw no reason to hold Harry back,” said Minister of Magic Kinglsey Shacklebolt. “His outstanding performance in the training program warranted this early promotion. We need Aurors of his caliber in the field as soon as possible.”_
> 
> _The official Ministry statement suggested that Potter “was anxious to get on with his calling.” However, new information has come to light that indicates there might be more to this story…_

A photograph accompanied the detailed description of Harry’s argument with Hermione in front of Grimmauld place, quoting him as saying “she can have all the bloody time she wants—she can have f***ing forever!” Of course, the paper speculated that Ginny was the subject of the argument and had rehashed each of her previous rows with Harry (real and imagined) as well as her “attempted suicide,” with several quotes from Romilda Vane to top it all off. By the time Ginny reached the end of the story, her hands were shaking with the realization that all of Wizarding Britain was convinced that she had driven Harry out of the country.

With a grim look, Ron had got up and left.

Since then, Ginny had been walking through the days in a fog, avoiding contact with everyone. The only person she ever really talked to anymore was George, and she didn’t say much to him. They mostly just sat in companionable silence.

Ginny spent most of her time alone, just the way she wanted it. Focusing on conversation was too difficult, especially when most of the people who wanted to talk to her were trying to get her to do things she didn’t want to do…like eat, or talk, or go back to school. Alone was easier.

Giving herself a mental shake, Ginny rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her return to Hogwarts had still not been settled. Ginny was determined not to go; Mum was just as determined that she would. Every evening for the past week, Ginny had come home to find her trunk open and half-packed at the foot of her bed. And every evening, she had wearily unpacked it. Ginny didn’t really believe she could win this battle, but she had to try. The thought of returning to school sent cold panic through her. She couldn’t go back to the whispers and the stares and the memories… especially the memories. The memories would be the worst. Now, on top of the horrors from last year and Fred’s death, how would she be able to walk through the school without thinking about Harry and what she’d done to drive him away, not only from herself but from the only family he had ever known?

She had tried to think what she was going to do with herself. If she didn’t go back to Hogwarts, she couldn’t stay at the Burrow—Mum would drive her truly round the twist. She’d thought about asking George if she could move in with him, but the flat had only one bedroom. He’d shared it with Fred before, but Ginny didn’t think it would work for him to share with her. And besides, much to her surprise, he’d begun occasionally sharing it with Angelina Johnson.

Ginny hadn’t asked for any details, but from the conversations she’d heard, she’d pieced together that Angelina had stopped by one day several months ago and renewed her friendship with George over shared sorrow for Fred. As the weeks went by, they had begun spending more and more time together until, inevitably, they had found themselves dating. Ginny thought they were still taking things slowly, trying to figure out if it was only memories of Fred holding them together, but it explained why George seemed so much happier now. It also explained why she couldn’t share his flat.

Of course, if Ron weren’t furious with her, Ginny might have asked if she could move in with him, at least until Hermione finished school. But he _was_ furious and wouldn’t even stay in the same room with her. He certainly wouldn’t be willing to let her move into his flat.

Bill and Fleur’s cottage wasn’t really an option, either. Even though she had felt less antagonistic toward Fleur since their media training disaster, Ginny still didn’t think it would work to live in the same house with them, especially with the baby on the way.

That left only two choices that weren’t really choices, either. She thought she might actually enjoy living in Romania with Charlie, but she suspected that his lifestyle wasn’t conducive to having his little sister in permanent residence. And Percy... well, no. Just... no.

So she was back where she’d started—living at home until she could find a job that would allow her to pay rent on a flat. And she’d probably have to find a flatmate, too, which wasn’t an appealing proposition. Who would want to live with her, anyway?

With a heavy sigh, Ginny rolled back onto her stomach just as Hermione burst into the room. Face flushed with rage, she threw herself into the armchair next to the couch and fumed silently at the fire. Ginny watched her, trying to decide if she really wanted to know. After a moment, she gave in.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your brother,” Hermione said through clenched teeth.

“You mean he’s being a bigger prat than usual?”

With a huff, Hermione stood and started pacing, flinging her arms about to emphasize her point. “Actually, yes! He just doesn’t get it. He absolutely refuses to even _try_ to see my point of view. How can we get married if we can’t even discuss something like this?”

Ginny pushed herself wearily into a sitting position and wrapped her arms around her knees. “So why are you doing it?” They both knew she was referring to Hogwarts, not marriage.

Hermione flopped back into the chair and ran her hand over her eyes. “I have to. I want to, but even more, I _have_ to.”

“But, why? You already have a good Ministry job—”

“I have a dead-end Ministry job. And if I ever want to have a job—a career—where I can really accomplish anything important, I have to have my NEWTs.”

“So take the test,” Ginny said with a shrug. “You don’t have to go back to school to do that.”

Hermione gave a growl of frustration. “You sound just like Ron and Ha—” she stopped and glared at the fire. Ginny forced herself not to react even though her stomach filled with pixies at the almost-sound of his name. “You sound just like Ron,” Hermione continued. “I can’t _just take_ my NEWTs. I have to have perfect marks and, to do that, I need to go back to school.”

Ginny shook her head in wonder. “Hermione, you don’t _need_ perfect marks to get a good job, even though you could probably _get_ perfect marks without going back to school. I just don’t understand why this is so important to you.”

Hermione moved over to sit on the couch, folding her leg under her and turning sideways to face Ginny. “I have to have perfect marks because I’m Muggleborn.”

“Oh, that’s rubbish,” Ginny scoffed. “That doesn’t matter. You can run circles around anyone at the Ministry.”

“It _does_ matter!” Hermione’s eyes blazed with passion and determination. “It does. They don’t come right out and say it, but the old prejudices are still there. They might not have a Registration Commission anymore, but if you’re not pureblood, you have to prove yourself. They haven’t told me in so many words, but the message has been clear. I have no hope of advancement at the Ministry without perfect marks.”

“But can’t you just talk to the Minister? I mean, really, Hermione, you’re a war hero. They gave you the Order of Merlin, First Class. How can they—”

“That’s just it! I don’t want to do it that way. They think I got the position in the first place because of—” she looked nervously away “—because of my connections. They won’t even acknowledge my own part in the war. Unless I can prove to them that I’m as good as—no, that I’m better than—any pureblood, I’ll never be able to do anything that matters. I’ll be pushing worthless paper for the rest of my life.”

Ginny nodded slowly as understanding began to dawn. As smart as she was, Hermione was just as insecure as the next person and she needed to do this her way to be sure she was taken seriously and on her own terms. Ron should know this about her by now. “I still think you should talk to the Minister, but I think I can understand why you feel you need to go back to school. I’m sorry Ron won’t listen. It’s probably my fault.”

Hermione laid her head against the back of the couch. “No, it’s not your fault. We’ve been talking about this for a couple of months. Ha—” she stopped again and swallowed hard before continuing, “Ron thinks I won’t come back. He’s got this crazy idea that he’s not good enough for me.” She blotted her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Isn’t that ridiculous?” she asked with a damp smile.

“Yeah,” Ginny agreed, even though she thought Ron might actually have a point.

With a deep breath, Hermione ran a hand through her hair and took control of her emotions again. “I just wish he wouldn’t make this so hard. It’s going to be difficult enough to be away from him as it is, but it’s only six months. I wish he could see that.”

“He’ll come round. He’s fancied you for too long to let you go that easily.”

Hermione smiled sadly and gave her a doubtful look. “I’m not so sure. But thanks for saying it anyway. You’ve always been such a good friend, Ginny.” Her expression turned wistful. “I really wish you were coming with me.”

Ginny averted her eyes and nervously toyed with her necklace. “I don’t belong there,” she said softly. “None of that seems important anymore. I don’t fit in.”

Hermione huffed. “I don’t fit in, either. I never have. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m just going for the studies. But it would still be a lot easier if someone else were there who didn’t fit in with me.”

Ginny had the feeling she was being led down the garden path, but Hermione was doing such a nice job of it, and it felt good to be wanted. Even so, Ginny wasn’t convinced that going back to school was the best idea.

“I don’t think I can do it, Hermione. My grades are already rubbish. I’m not sure I could ever catch up, even if I wasn’t a walking mental case. I can hardly concentrate long enough to cast the spell to tally the receipts. How would I possibly get through my classes _and_ my NEWTs?”

Hermione’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a challenge. “We can get you through. I’ve already got my revising schedule done, so I could do one for you, too, and—”

“Wait! You know your timetable already? How—”

“Oh, I’ve been talking to McGonagall for weeks. I met with her the first time when I came to see you and I’ve been catching up on the work I missed during the autumn term, so—”

Ginny held up her hands. “Oh, stop, please stop. You’re making me tired just listening to you. I’d never be able to keep up.”

Hermione gave her a sad smile. “Sorry. I’m just so excited about going back and I—well, I haven’t had anyone to talk to about it.”

Ginny gave her a little smile and shrugged. “It’s okay. You can talk to me about it anytime.”

Hermione’s expression turned gentle. “Thanks, but, you know, I’d really like it more if you came back with me. Please say you’ll at least think about it?”

Ginny looked back into the fire, trying to decide what to say. She really didn’t want to go back to school, but she hated the thought of dashing Hermione’s excitement, especially when it was at least partly her fault that Ron was being such a stupid prat. After a few moments, Ginny nodded reluctantly. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” At Hermione’s brilliant smile, she added, “I said I’d _think_ about it, Hermione. I didn’t say I was going.”

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said, but she still looked like the Kneazle who’d caught the canary. 

And that night, Ginny didn’t unpack her trunk.


	22. Learning to Breathe Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny struggles to get back into the routine and has a serious talk with Dean.

Like a particularly gory Quidditch collision, the scene was so simultaneously horrifying and fascinating that she couldn’t keep from watching. Ginny shuffled her feet and stared at her fingers and then at the ceiling, but her eyes just kept drifting back. The sight stirred all sorts of horrible feelings to life: pain and longing and nausea.

As Ginny had predicted, Ron had come round about Hermione going back to Hogwarts. And now he was making a disgusting scene over their farewell... as if he weren’t going to see her again in less than a week—Hermione had already arranged with McGonagall for Sunday visits. As a couple, Ron and Hermione were usually very low-key about their affection, rarely doing more than holding hands or giving a quick peck hello or goodbye. This was more along the lines of Ron’s public groping sessions with Lavender Brown two years ago, only worse because of the impending tears… Ron’s, not Hermione’s.

Ginny sneaked another look at them through her lashes. Ron was clutching Hermione tightly about the waist; she had her arms on his shoulders, holding herself far enough away to look into his red-rimmed, rapidly blinking eyes. He sniffled loudly and nodded occasionally as she spoke to him in low tones, trying to encourage a smile out of him. The show of emotion was both baffling and heartening. Until recently, the Weasley men had always hidden their feelings behind jokes or anger. But since Fred’s death and Bill’s marriage, George and Bill and Dad seemed more comfortable with showing emotion. Ginny had just never expected as much from thick-as-a-plank Ron.

Hermione’s engagement ring twinkled like a shooting star as she brushed a strand of hair from Ron’s forehead and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Ginny looked away and fingered the empty place on her left hand as the ache in her chest flared. The scene reminded her too much of her own send-off at the beginning of the school year. At least they were standing in the kitchen at the Burrow and not in the middle of King’s Cross station where the press would document every move to run on the front page of tomorrow’s papers.

“Ginny, dear, do you have everything?”

Grateful for the distraction, Ginny gave her mother a half-hearted smile. “Yes, Mum. I still have everything, just like I did when you asked me ten minutes ago.”

She really was trying _not_ to have a row with her mother before she left, but the smug look on Mum’s face was becoming more annoying by the minute. Yes, she’d given in and was going back to Hogwarts, but she’d steadfastly refused her mother’s pleas to ask McGonagall to reinstate her as Head Girl. She’d done a miserable job of it first term and she didn’t even want to try anymore. It was one less opportunity for failure.

And, contrary to her mother’s belief, she wasn’t going back because she agreed that it was important to finish her education. With Hermione watching over her, Ginny knew she would have to at least appear to make an attempt at her schoolwork, but she had her doubts that she’d earn even one NEWT when the time came…and she wasn’t the least bit fussed about it.

No, the main reason she was going back was because she knew she couldn’t live at the Burrow (she and Mum would end up killing each other) and she hadn’t been able to come up with any other place to go. Hogwarts was her last resort. If Hermione was going to be there, it was as good as any place that wasn’t home.

“Ready?” Ginny looked up from her thoughts to find Hermione and Ron standing next to her. She was so glad McGonagall was allowing them to Floo in rather take the Hogwarts Express. The thought of six hours on the train with the other students staring and whispering had sent shivers of dread through her. Hermione working this out had been the turning point in Ginny’s decision to go back.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Ginny said. She gave her mother a perfunctory goodbye hug and turned to look at Ron. He hadn’t fully forgiven her yet, but he wasn’t quite as distant as he had been. “See you next Sunday?”

He held her gaze for the first time in weeks and shrugged. “Yeah.” Giving Hermione a squeeze, he quirked the corner of his mouth up at Ginny. “So, erm, keep the blokes off her, yeah?”

Ginny smiled a bit and nodded. That was probably as much of an apology or declaration of forgiveness as she was going to get, but she wasn’t convinced that she deserved more anyway. So much for the Weasley men becoming comfortable with their emotions.

***

“Can you believe she named a _Slytherin_ as Head Girl? I mean, really!”

At the sound of Parvati’s voice coming up the stairs, Ginny sent an I-told-you-so look across the bed to Hermione, who had paused in arranging books on the set of shelves she had Transfigured from her night table. Rather than attend supper in the Great Hall, they had asked Winky to bring sandwiches to the dormitory. Apparently the communal meal was now over. From the minute she’d agreed to come back, Ginny had been dreading having to face the other students. Parvati and Lavender were only the beginning.

“Well,” Parvati’s disembodied voice continued, “at least with Ginny gone we’ll have more room and we won’t have to tiptoe around any—Oh!”

Parvati had stopped so suddenly in the doorway that Lavender had run into her, sending them both stumbling awkwardly into the room. The twin looks of shock on their faces sent a thrill of satisfaction through Ginny.

“Hi, Parvati. Hi, Lavender.” Hermione didn’t bother to look up from sorting her books into alphabetical order by author.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Parvati sputtered at Hermione.

“I’ve come to finish my education, same as you.” Hermione still didn’t look up. “Nice to see you again, too.”

Ginny had to fight to keep the smile from her face. Having Hermione here was going to be a definite advantage.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Parvati gaped at the new furniture arrangement as she began to recover her composure. Lavender started digging through her trunk—she, at least, seemed embarrassed. Parvati plowed ahead as if she hadn’t just made a fool of herself. “So, did Ron come back, too? I mean, I know that Harry…” She trailed off with a speculative look in Ginny’s direction.

Ginny stood and threw her trunk lid open. Parvati’s antics were suddenly too much to bear.

“No, Ron didn’t come. So, how is your family? Did Padma come back?” Even though Hermione’s words were friendly, her tone had become cold.

Ginny gathered her toothbrush and pyjamas and fled the room, not really caring that it might look like she was running way. That’s what she was doing. It was better than falling apart in front of Parvati and Lavender.

Relieved to find the dormitory shower room empty, Ginny leaned back against the door and drew in great gulps of air to calm her churning stomach and pounding heart. Was it going to be like this forever? Would she ever get to the point that she didn’t go to pieces at just the sound of his name? He was famous and important and there was no chance that she’d go through the rest of her life without someone mentioning him in her presence. She simply _had_ to find a way to get herself under control.

She had changed and was loading her toothbrush when the door opened and Lavender slipped in. Groaning inwardly, Ginny jammed the brush into her mouth and scrubbed her teeth harder than necessary in an effort to finish quickly so she could return to the privacy of her bed curtains. Lavender settled her things on the counter, pulled her hair back with an Alice band, and silently began cleansing off her makeup. She kept her eyes fixed on what she was doing until Ginny had finished and was turning to leave.

“I’m sorry.” At the sound of Lavender’s quiet voice, Ginny stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry about what Parvati said... and... and about... everything…”

Ginny clutched her clothes to her chest and nodded. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you came back,” Lavender continued. “I’m glad Hermione’s here, too. I think it’ll help.”

Ginny turned around and nodded again. She really didn’t want to talk to Lavender about any of this, but she didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the kindness, either. “So, erm, who did McGonagall name as Head Girl?” Ginny finally asked, more to change the topic than because she was really interested.

“Daphne Greengrass.”

“Ah.” Ginny couldn’t think of anything else to say. Just the girl’s name—Daphne—conjured bad feelings. She racked her brain to come up with a face. “Oh, I remember. She was a prefect. Blonde, pretty…”

Lavender looked thoughtful. “I suppose. I don’t know much about her, really. Being Slytherin won’t make her a popular choice.”

Ginny nodded. “They’re usually all about blood status, but I don’t know if she’s like that or not. She didn’t speak up much during the meetings, just let Baddock do all the talking. It’ll be interesting to see how she handles him.”

“Maybe she’ll do all right. But she looks... I don’t know... cold. Like she thinks she’s better than everyone,” Lavender said, then looked away as she added, “Not like you.”

Ginny snorted. “Well, thanks for saying so, but plenty of people would disagree.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’d be surprised…” Lavender said with a little smile. “If so, it’s only because they don’t know you.”

They shared a moment of awkward silence. Ginny lowered her eyes and shifted her clothes to her other arm. “Erm, I don’t think I ever thanked you... for helping me... in Hogsmeade... and that week after. That was... nice.”

Lavender shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Why?” Ginny cocked her head in curiosity. “Why did you do it? I mean, I know Parvati isn’t happy that you’re being nice to me.”

Lavender ducked her head. “Parvati is... well, we’ve been friends since first year and I can’t just walk away from her. She’s not really a bad person, but sometimes she’s... well... I think she just doesn’t have a lot of confidence in herself. And I think she’s a bit jealous of you. Well, actually, she’s a lot jealous of you. But I’ve never seen you be mean to anyone... at least, not without good reason… and I saw how you were last year... taking punishment for other people and all. I guess, when we went to Hogsmeade, I finally realized what you’ve been going through… I wouldn’t be able to handle it nearly as well as you have.”

Ginny gasped in surprise. “Handle it well? Are you serious? I’m a nutter! Don’t you read the newspapers? Haven’t you paid attention? I took a flying leap off of my broom, for Merlin’s sake!”

“You’re doing loads better than I would. I would’ve taken that flying leap last summer.” Lavender absently rubbed her shoulder where Greyback had bitten her during the final battle.

Ginny watched her in silent sympathy over their common enemy, remembering how Bill’s injury from Greyback bothered him near time for the full moon. She nodded toward Lavender’s shoulder.

“My brother has a potion that helps a bit with that. I’ll see if I can get some for you.”

“That would be nice. Thanks.”

Three chattering fourth-years burst into the room, pausing only briefly to openly gawk at Ginny before exploding into a fit of giggles as they claimed their respective sinks.

Keeping her eyes on Lavender, Ginny backed toward the door. “I’ll go on then… let you get finished.”

Lavender cast a glare at the girls before nodding and turning back to the mirror.

Sleep was a long time coming as Ginny puzzled over the conversation. But the thought that one more person didn’t think she was a hopeless mental case opened another tiny crack in her prison of depression.

***

Nothing had _really_ changed. Most of the students still stared and whispered. The memories still assaulted her at every turn. She still had trouble dragging herself out of bed in the morning and focusing in class. And when Slughorn fell all over himself to gush over Hermione without giving Ginny so much as a glance (and she was standing right in front of him), she knew she had officially become worthless in the eyes of the world.

But in spite of it all, Hermione made Hogwarts a different place for Ginny. They had grown close over the summers when Hermione had visited the Burrow—banding together during the day when the boys were being prats; talking and giggling at night about school and boys and fashion and…well, boys. So, now, having Hermione at school was like having family with her again. Ginny finally had someone who knew what she’d been through and what she was feeling, someone she could talk to about things she could never tell anyone else for fear that they might let it slip to (or deliberately tell) the press. She didn’t have to explain when the dark days dragged her down or why her eyes were red and puffy in the morning. She could be herself without having to hide or make excuses or apologize.

Hermione was the sister Ginny had always wanted.

And like any big sister, Hermione knew how to boss Ginny around. But even while she pretended to be irritated, Ginny was grateful for the gentle bullying. Hermione’s daily regimen—eat, class, eat, class, revise, eat, revise, sleep—kept her from having to think what to do from minute to minute. She could get through the day in spite of the ever-present ache in her chest and the wishes and regrets and weariness that sucked the life from her.

The advantage of having such a staunch ally had become clear the very first morning back. Ginny and Hermione had just walked into the Great Hall for breakfast when Romilda and a contingent of her fan club members blocked their way.

“What did you do?” Romilda had demanded of Ginny, taking a threatening step toward her. “What did you do to make him leave?”

Taken off guard by the ambush and flooded with guilt at the surprisingly accurate accusation, Ginny had retreated a step, unable to make her brain come up with a response. She had wanted nothing more than to crawl under the nearest table as every eye in the room turned toward her. Fortunately, she hadn’t needed to.

Hermione stepped in front of Ginny to confront Romilda. “Harry’s an Auror. He’s been sent on assignment. Not that it’s any of _your_ business.”

Romilda eyed Hermione with contempt. “I don’t believe it. The _Prophet_ said—”

Hermione’s sharp burst of laughter cut her off. “You actually believe what you read in the _Prophet_? Really! And I always thought you were at least _moderately_ intelligent.”

Romilda’s face heated with anger. “ _All_ of the newspapers and magazines said it.”

“Oh, _pu-lease_!” Hermione said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “When it comes to Harry, the wizarding press only reports rumors and speculation and outright lies. If they do get something right, it’s just sheer dumb luck. The only publication that prints the truth is _The_ _Quibbler_.”

It was Romilda’s turn to roll her eyes. “That rag?” She snorted in disgust.

Hermione shrugged. “Believe what you want, then.” She grabbed Ginny’s arm and made to move down the aisle.

Romilda stepped in front of them again. “It doesn’t matter. I know it’s her fault. He was still in training. They wouldn’t have sent him into the field this soon. She did something to make him want to leave.” Her club members bobbed their heads in agreement.

Hermione stopped and raised an eyebrow, all traces of amusement leaving her face. She swept a look of scorn over the group. Ginny had the feeling Romilda had just crossed an invisible line and was going to regret it.

“Oh? What makes you think that?” Hermione’s voice carried a tone of warning that seemed to go right past Romilda.

“I know him. I understand him.” Romilda shook back her hair and tipped her nose into the air as she looked to her followers for affirmation. They nodded obediently.

Ginny’s jaw dropped at Romilda’s recklessness—was saving face that important? Did she not realize who she was talking to?

“Is that so?” Hermione took a step forward, the warning in her voice increasing subtly. “And how do _you_ know him so well? Do you talk to him? Does he write to you? What did his last letter say?”

Doubt flashed through Romilda’s eyes as she cut a glance at her followers watching avidly. Other students sitting nearby were wide-eyed and all ears, too. Romilda opened her mouth to answer but Hermione held up a hand and cut her off.

“Allow me.” Hermione cleared her throat and began reciting as if quoting from a textbook. “ _Dear, Romilda. Thanks so much for your letter. I always look forward to hearing from you. I hope things are good at Hogwarts. My Auror training is going well, although I can’t wait to get into the field. I’ve begun visiting a home for children who were left orphaned by the war. I think it’s important to help those who lost so much—”_ She stopped and gave a humorless smirk. “Shall I continue?”

Romilda had gone pale; her club members were casting questioning looks at each other and back at her.

Hermione pressed her advantage. “Harry’s publicist has a quill charmed to sign his name. She writes individual letters to the fan club presidents—all fifty-three of them. I helped her write the letters a few weeks ago when she wasn’t feeling well. You _do_ know that Harry’s publicist is Fleur Delacour…” —she paused for dramatic effect— "... _Weasley_?”

Romilda blanched as her followers began murmuring among themselves. Hermione’s eyes took on a wicked gleam.

“I know what you think, Romilda. You’re just like all of the others who believe that, because they’ve read every word ever written about Harry, they know him and understand him better than anyone. The sad part is that Harry’s a very nice person who wouldn’t go out of his way to offend anyone... at least not without good reason. I’m sure he’s been very polite to you when he comes to Hogwarts, in spite of the way you throw yourself at him.”

In a final effort to hold onto her dignity, Romilda threw back her shoulders and looked down her nose at Hermione. “You’re wrong. He—”

“He would _never_ stand for the way you’re attacking Ginny.” Hermione cut Romilda off with a tone that could freeze a Dementor. “He loves her. And even if he didn’t, you’re the _last_ girl he’d look at.” With a sudden brilliant smile, she added, “At least, that’s what he told _me_.”

With a horrified whimper, Romilda had run from the Great Hall to the laughter and smattering of applause from the students who had been watching. Her fan club members had dispersed in a hurry; only a couple had followed her. Hermione had calmly guided Ginny to the Gryffindor table.

“Thank you,” Ginny murmured when they were settled.

“Oh, it was my pleasure.” Hermione didn’t look at Ginny as she began serving them both breakfast. “Has she been like that all year? I’m surprised you didn’t hex her ages ago.”

Ginny looked down at where she was playing with her empty ring finger. Hermione was right. She should’ve hexed Romilda months ago. At one time—before—she would have done so. She would never have taken such abuse from anyone.

“I should have.” Ginny fought to keep the quiver out of her voice. Swallowing hard and concentrating on her hands, she managed to speak only slightly louder than a whisper. “Did he... did he really tell you that... about Romilda?”

Hermione snorted. “He didn’t have to. But I’m sure he would if I asked.”

Ginny nodded and chewed her lip for a moment. “Then he didn’t tell you the other either, did he? It’s not really true, is it?”

“What?”

“He doesn’t love me. Not anymore. Not after what I’ve done.”

Hermione had paused only briefly in ladling porridge before shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

The conversation came to an end as Dean and Seamus sat down across the table with enthusiastic congratulations for Hermione—word of the encounter had apparently already spread through the castle. But Ginny had thought of little else the rest of the day, working hard to keep Hermione’s cryptic comment from rekindling hope.

***

If Ginny was grateful for not having to plan her days, she was equally frustrated at never having a minute to herself. Because they didn’t have all of their classes together, Hermione had re-enlisted Ginny’s friends to help monitor her every move and fill her time to keep the depression from claiming her again.

Most of the time, Ginny tried to keep up appearances, pretending interest in her studies and the activities around her. But she was certain that she wasn’t fooling anyone. Even her small effort took all of her strength and left her visibly drained. She never chose to do anything that required more energy than putting one foot in front of the other. If they didn’t keep pushing her, she would never even get out of bed.

That’s why she was so surprised when Dean brought up Quidditch during lunch at the end of their first week back.

“We start practice again on Monday. I haven’t set tryouts for a new Chaser, yet.” He casually stabbed a sausage on his plate and gave her a sideways glance. “You could still play.”

“I don’t think so, Dean.” She heaved a weary sigh. “I just don’t have it in me anymore.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re too good to just quit.”

“You were at the last match, right? I’m rubbish.”

“That was the weather and... other things,” he said, then quickly added, “We need you, Ginny. Hufflepuff has the most experienced team this year. We don’t have time to train someone new. And I’m not sure who we’d get anyway.”

She idly swirled her spoon through her mashed potatoes. “Get Seamus.”

“Have you seen Seamus fly? I’d sooner get Neville.”

“Oi!” Seamus squawked, flashing a rude gesture across the table, while Neville chimed in, “Hey! I resent that!”

Dean gave them an unrepentant grin before turning back to Ginny.

“Ah, come on, Ginny. _Please_. I don’t want anyone else. We’d have a shot at the Cup if you’d play. I just know it.” He gestured at her still-full plate. “You’re supposed to eat that, not just play with it.”

She took a big bite to keep from having to answer him about Quidditch. But he didn’t let up. He pestered her at every turn through the rest of the day until Ginny thought she would scream. By evening, he had rallied the team to join the effort and they surrounded her in the common room after supper. With a less-than-perfect (but still effective) Bat Bogey Hex for Dean, she finally escaped to her room in search of peace.

Lavender and Parvati were out, apparently getting an early start on the weekend. Hermione was sitting on her bed reading. With a huff, Ginny flopped onto her own bed and picked up a book. But after only a few minutes she was staring blindly into her canopy, the book face down across her stomach.

“You’re not going to learn that by osmosis, you know,” Hermione said as she turned a page.

“What’s osmosis?” Ginny asked without moving, not really caring but hoping to divert Hermione’s attention.

“It’s the diffusion of something, usually liquid, through a semi-permeable—” Hermione stopped and scowled. “Did Ron teach you how to do that?”

Ginny’s voice remained flat, her eyes fixed overhead. “No, I taught him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The point is you’re not going to learn it if you don’t read it.”

Ginny closed her book and curled onto her side around her pillow to face Hermione. “I know. But I’ve read the same sentence twenty times and I still can’t tell you what it says. I just can’t concentrate.”

Hermione put a marker in her book and set it aside as she sat up. “What’s wrong? Is it something new?”

Ginny made circles on the bed coverings with her finger. “Not really. I guess... I just... I’ve really mucked things up, haven’t I?”

Hermione was quiet for a moment as if she were weighing her words. “I know it seems hopeless right now. But you really do seem a bit better. And, well... I think... no, I know... everything else... will be fine.”

Ginny rolled onto her back, clutching the pillow to her chest. She knew exactly who “everything else” was—no one ever seemed to want to say his name around her, which was fine because she couldn’t bring herself to talk about him. With a heavy sigh, she steered the topic back on course.

“Am I ever going to be myself again? Am I ever going to get my life back, be able to do things without everyone watching me all of the time?”

“You know we only watch you because we care about you.” Hermione frowned at her fingers for a moment. “You know, I’ve been doing some reading.”

Ginny’s eyes grew wide in mock surprise. “Really? How unusual. When did you pick up this habit?”

Hermione gave her a smile of delight and threw a pillow at her. “Cheeky prat. I’m glad to see that your sense of humor is coming back.”

Ginny scowled at the thought that her every word and action was being scrutinized. “So what were you reading about?”

Hermione sobered and played with the corner of her blanket. “Well, actually, I was reading a couple of Muggle books... about depression.”

A spark of irritation flashed through Ginny. “If this is about going to St. Mun—”

“No! No, it’s not. I know how you feel about that. No, I just... I thought if I looked up some things, maybe I could help somehow.”

“I don’t think you can fix me with a book,” Ginny growled.

Hermione dropped her eyes, but not before Ginny saw the disappointment and hurt in them. She willed her anger into submission and sighed. “Okay. So you did some research. What did you find?”

Hermione sat up a bit straighter and slipped into her school-teacher voice. “Well, from what I’ve read, I don’t think you’re genetically pre-disposed... I talked to your Mum and there’s no family history. I think this is likely a situational condition related to post-traumatic stress disorder—”

She stopped when the pillow hit her in the face.

“English, please,” Ginny huffed.

Hermione made a face at her before starting again. “The depression is probably caused by a combination of things—the war, Greyback’s attack, the press, coming back to school… You’ve simply had too much anxiety building up. According to the books, all that stress has affected the parts of your brain that regulate your moods, concentration, sleep, appetite and behavior—”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “ _I_ could’ve told you that.”

Hermione just raised her voice and continued, “—by unbalancing the chemicals in your brain cells. The Muggles have developed some medications that can put the chemicals right again.”

Ginny gave her a skeptical look but she couldn’t stop the little Snitch of hope that fluttered in her chest. “You’re telling me I can take a potion and be myself again?”

“Actually, they’re pills... kind of like, um, Pepper Imps without the fire-breathing, I guess. But, no, it’s not quite that easy. It doesn’t happen overnight.” The Snitch in Ginny’s chest folded its wings as Hermione continued. “And, well, they say it’s best to work with a therapist... the Muggle term for Mind Healer—”

“No!” The Snitch turned into a Bludger of anger. Ginny flopped onto her back and stared mutinously overhead. “I knew you’d eventually get back round to St. Mungo’s. I’m _not_ going.”

“I wasn’t thinking of St. Mungo’s,” Hermione said quickly. “I was thinking of a _Muggle_ therapist. You’d have to see one anyway to get the medi—”

“Oh, I can just see that now…” Sarcasm dripped from Ginny’s every word. “Yes, Mr. Muggle, I’m all depressed because an evil wizard tried to take over the world, and I was in a war where giants and huge spiders attacked my school, and my boyfriend survived a killing curse for the second time in his life, and a werewolf abducted me to bear his cubs, and, I can’t walk down the street because the photographers attack me so they can run cocked-up stories about me in their magazines and newspapers. And, oh, by the way, I’m a witch.”

Hermione failed miserably in her attempt to keep a straight face. “Well, yes, I guess I can see your point. It might prove a bit challenging—”

“ _A bit!_ Hermione, there’s no way I could see a Muggle therafish—”

“Therapist.”

“—and not breech the Statute of Secrecy. I’d end up in either a Muggle ward for nutters or Azkaban. And wouldn’t the press have fun with that!”

Hermione sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Ginny stared into her canopy. She knew her anger was irrational and that Hermione was only trying to help. But nothing could help and there was no point in hanging her hopes on some unattainable Muggle treatment. She cut a glance at the next bed; Hermione’s brow was furrowed in thought as she fingered her lip. With a supreme effort, Ginny searched for any remaining reserves of energy—Hermione wasn’t through; her voice took on a dreamy quality, as if she were talking to herself…

“Although, I wonder… never be able to get the chemical composition… but if he’d be willing to…”

Ginny hated listening to Hermione off into her own world like that. “Chemi-who? What are you on about? Who’d be willing to do what?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped into focus. “There _is_ something else that might help.”

Ginny closed her eyes to keep from rolling them. “What?”

“Well, actually, it’s something Dean said.”

“The only thing Dean has talked about today is Quidditch.”

When Hermione didn’t say anything, Ginny opened her eyes. The look on Hermione’s face was all the answer she needed.

“Oh, no. Not you, too. You don’t even _like_ Quidditch.”

“I don’t have to like it. But it could help—” At Ginny’s snort of disbelief, Hermione shook her head and stood to pace between the beds, her thoughts seeming to spill out unfiltered again. “No, really. It could. The book said diet and exercise are very important... not quite as good alone as with the medications and therapy... it would be best if you could do all of it... but, yes, diet and exercise... exercise, especially. It increases the endorphins in your brain—”

“The what?”

“The en—the chemicals in your brain that enhance your feelings of well-being.”

Ginny sank back into her pillow, her voice taking on a weary tone. “Climbing seven staircases fourteen times a day isn’t enough exercise?”

Hermione stopped pacing. Without looking at her, Ginny could envision her chewing on her lip as she thought through her answer. “It probably should be. But maybe Quidditch would be the extra boost you need. I really think you should try it. It might make you sleep better and increase your appetite, too, which would also help.”

Ginny didn’t answer. She kept her eyes closed, hoping Hermione would take the hint. Conversations about depression were... depressing.

But Hermione kept on. “You’ll at least think about it, won’t you?”

“I suppose,” Ginny sighed. “But do you really think McGonagall is going to let me back on a broom?”

Hermione sank back down on her bed. “Hmmm… Yes, that might be problematic… Although the new rules apply to everyone, not just to you.”

Ginny pushed up on her elbow. “New rules? What new rules?”

Hermione gave her a confused look. “That everyone has to check in with Madam Hooch before flying and no one can fly higher than the Headmistress’s Office. Protective enchantments have been put over the grounds and the broom shed, and anyone caught in the air without permission will have their broom confiscated and be banned from flying until the end of the year. It was all in the letter we got before term. Didn’t you read it?”

Ginny gave a bitter laugh. “I binned it without opening it. I wasn’t planning to come back, remember? I guess I mucked that up for everyone else, too, didn’t I? No wonder they all look at me like I’ve got Dragon Pox or something.”

“It’s not as bad as all that—”

“No, it’s worse,” Ginny said as she turned over to face away from Hermione and flicked her wand to close her bed curtains.

“Ginny—”

“I’m tired, Hermione. Just go back to your reading. I’m going to sleep.”

She heard Hermione sigh and pick her book up, but it was many hours before Ginny finally dozed off, still fully-dressed.

***

By Sunday, Ginny was furious with the world. Dean and the team just would NOT let up about Quidditch and they wouldn’t allow her a minute to herself. She was surprised no one followed her into the loo.

And now she was forced to sit and watch Ron and Hermione cuddle on the common room couch. They had insisted that Ron was there to visit her, too, but Ginny could tell it was a farce. Ron had to work on Saturdays, so Sundays were the only day he could come, and Ginny knew he’d rather have Hermione all to himself. But Hermione wouldn’t hear of Ginny going to the dormitory or library, and (at Hermione’s prompting) Ron had agreed with (almost believable) enthusiasm—Hermione had likely threatened not to let him visit, if he didn’t. Ginny was certain that he still hadn’t forgiven her completely for Harry’s departure and her intrusion on his time with Hermione wasn’t winning her any points.

Curled in the armchair in front of the fire, Ginny glowered into the flames. After an hour of watching Ron squirm on the couch with a pillow in his lap, she could bear it no longer. She stood abruptly.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she hissed under her breath so the other students studying nearby couldn’t hear. “You don’t have to watch me every minute. You need to spend time together...  _alone_. Would you _please_ go somewhere?”

Hermione heaved a weary sigh and Ron cocked a brow. “And where, in the name of Merlin’s saggy balls, are we supposed to go?” he grumbled. “I’m _well_ past the broom cupboard stage.”

Ginny threw up her hands in exasperation. “Use the Room of Requirement. That’s where—” She stopped as the memories flooded in and she had to turn her back on them, blinking frantically and drawing deep breaths to hold back the tears. “Just go,” she finally managed thickly over her shoulder as she headed for the dormitory stairs. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Ginny, wait—” Hermione called after her, but Ginny kept going because if she didn’t she was going to break down completely.

In the dormitory, Lavender and Parvati stopped their conversation to watch her cross the room. Ginny ignored them and grabbed her cloak before dashing back down the stairs. Unsurprisingly, Ron and Hermione were blocking her path to the portrait hole.

“Look,” she said, still struggling to control her emotions. “I know you mean well. But even if _you_ don’t need time alone, _I_ do. Hermione, you hover over me like a mother dragon and it’s driving me barmy. Please...  _please_ , go spend some time together and let me be. I promise I won’t do anything stupid. Really. I’ll be fine.”

“I could use some air. Mind if I come along?”

At the sound of Dean’s voice, Ginny’s stomach plummeted and she closed her eyes in frustration. She didn’t want company at all, and, right now, Dean was the last person she wanted to be alone with. But if it would get Ron and Hermione moving, she would take advantage of it.

She opened her eyes and schooled her face not to show her irritation. “See? Problem solved. See you at supper... or not.” She added a half-hearted smile for good measure.

They looked at her sadly then used only their eyes to communicate with each other for a moment. “You’re sure about this?” Hermione asked her.

“Yes! Now go before I decide to hex you! Or change my mind.” Ginny shot Ron a meaningful look and he gave Hermione’s arm a little tug. Ginny shooed them through the portrait hole, then leaned against the wall and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Why did everything have to be so hard? She took several deep breaths and opened her eyes to find Dean watching her—she’d forgotten he was there.

“I. Don’t. Need. A. Nanny!” she snarled.

He gave her a crooked smile. “I know. But I’d like to come. I really _do_ need some air.”

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the portrait hole, angry that he wouldn’t take the hint. “Suit yourself.”

They made their way across the icy grounds, the silence broken only by the crunch beneath their boots. Overhead, thick grey clouds washed all of the color from the world and kept a lid on the damp winter air swirling around them like a thick potion.

The day suited Ginny’s mood perfectly. Merlin, she hadn’t thought she could miss Harry more, but now, knowing that Ron and Hermione were in “their room,” the pain in her hollowed chest had become excruciating. And having Dean along only made it worse—how could she possibly deal with this with him watching? She wished she could stalk off and leave him in her wake, but, with his long legs, he would be able to keep up with no effort. Simmering in her anger, she was halfway to the Quidditch pitch before she realized where she was going. Her pride wouldn’t let her turn away.

Dean followed her to the top of the stands without comment. She flopped onto the top bench and leaned back against the rail, wishing she could escape… wishing she could just fly away. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine that she was on her broom, soaring over the stands. But the air wasn’t moving enough to give the right sensation and she let the fantasy go after a few moments.

Even though he was doing nothing to call attention to himself, Ginny could feel Dean’s presence like a suffocating cloak. He was patient and kind and caring, but he wasn’t Harry. And right now, Harry was the only person she wanted... even if it was only her memories of him.

Dean didn’t seem bothered in the least by her dark mood. He was being so nice, she felt guilty about taking it out on him, which only made her angrier. She fought the circular emotional battle for several minutes before finally giving in to the guilt and making a reluctant attempt to be nice.

“So, how is Lisa?”

He didn’t seem to hear the edge in her voice and responded pleasantly. “She’s better. I’ve only talked to her once since term started. Our timetables don’t cross anywhere.”

The conversation lagged for a few moments while Ginny tried to think of something else to say that didn’t involve Quidditch. Lisa was the only topic she could find. “Are you going to ask her to Hogsmeade?”

He didn’t answer, so Ginny opened her eyes. He was staring thoughtfully through the mist to the pitch below, his mouth set with grim determination.

“Actually, I was going to ask you,” he said finally.

Ginny gave an indelicate snort. “Blast-ended Skrewts will become house pets before I go again. Nothing against you,” she added quickly. “I just think it’s best if I stay here.”

“You can’t hide forever, you know.”

She put her feet up on the seat in front of them and wrapped her arms around her knees as she stared at the toes of her boots. “Watch me. I won’t give them a chance to do that again.”

He waited three heartbeats before speaking again. “I’ll stay here, too, then.”

Ginny groaned loudly and dropped her head onto her knees. “I do _not_ need a bloody keeper twenty-four bloody hours a day! Besides, if you spend all of your time with me, you’re going to muck up your chance with Lisa.”

“Maybe I don’t want a chance with Lisa,” he said, keeping his eyes carefully on the pitch below.

Ginny huffed dramatically. “Right. And I’m not a mental case.”

Dean leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand. He seemed to be thinking hard about something. After a few moments, he sat back and gave her a searching look. “Maybe I’d rather take my chances with you.”

Ginny sat back and sighed. How many times were they going to have to have this conversation? “Dean—”

“No, listen, I—” he searched for the right word, “—care—about you. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone. Since fifth year. Even when you were with Corner. And even when—when I thought that my chance was gone forever. I can’t help it. It never goes away. And now—well—I know it’s too soon—but—”

“Dean, please don’t.” Ginny ran a weary hand through her hair and stared off toward the lake, trying to think what to say. With her heart’s desire gone forever, she certainly shouldn’t be pushing away the next best thing that would ever come her way. But her heart wouldn’t let her do otherwise. It was one more failure, proof positive that she was completely barmy. But then, maybe she _had_ been stringing Dean along, clinging to the comfort he offered, even though she knew she’d never be able to give much back. Perhaps it was time to make a clean break.

She swallowed over the knot that had formed in her throat and took a deep breath before speaking without looking at him. “I care about you a lot... just not... not that way. I wish I could. You’re a good person, but I...I...” She stopped and swallowed hard again. “I’ve been really lucky to have you as a friend. You’ve been so good to me. But I think I’m just... just a bad habit that you need to break.”

She stared hard at her toes again, willing him to understand. He watched her for a moment, then lifted a hand as if to stroke her hair. She leaned away and gave him the best smile she could muster, which wasn’t much.

“And besides, I know you think I’ve been all wrapped up in myself, but I’ve watched you with Lisa. She makes you laugh. I haven’t made you laugh in ages. And you talk with her about art and all sorts of things that I don’t know anything about.” Ginny’s eyes grew serious. “It’s time to move on. Ask Lisa to Hogsmeade. Give her a chance, okay?”

Dean pressed his lips together and stared mutinously back out at the pitch. Many long minutes passed before he spoke again.

“I’m not giving up that easily.”

Ginny sighed again, but didn’t respond. She was too exhausted to fight him anymore.

But he didn’t seem to need a response as he continued in a slightly lighter tone. “You could make it up to me, you know. Breaking my heart…” He wasn’t looking at her, but he had a gleam in his eye Ginny didn’t trust.

She gave him a wary look. “How?”

“Come back to the team.”

She dropped her head into her hands with a groan. “Dean, that’s not fair! You’re playing dirty. That’s just so... so... Slytherin!”

She caught his triumphant grin out of the corner of her eye. “Whatever works.”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway.” She released a heavy breath and sat up to look at him properly. “Even if I said yes, there’s no way McGonagall would let me fly.”

“Have you asked her?” His stare was intense.

“Don’t be daft. No one in the whole school can fly without permission because of me. What makes you think she’ll let me fly even with the team?”

“But if she’d let you, would you play?” His voice held a note of urgency.

“Dean, you saw how I played in the last match. Why would you even want me to?”

He brushed the argument away with a flick of his hand. “Extenuating circumstances. You’re my best player, Ginny. I never told McGonagall that you said you were quitting. If I can get her to let you fly, will you play?” He was growing more excited by the minute.

“I suppose,” she sighed, her well of resistance finally draining dry. McGongall was never going to agree anyway.

With a whoop of joy, Dean grabbed her hand. “Let’s go!” She had to scramble to keep up, wondering all the while if she’d created a monster that she wouldn’t be able to control.

By the time they reached the gargoyle, her heart leapt into her throat and she panicked. The thought of facing McGonagall turned her legs to jelly.

“Dean, wait!” She grabbed his arm before he could say the password. “I can’t do this. My grades are rubbish, I mucked up being Head Girl... Dean, I fell off my broom! Even if I didn’t mean to, I was really, really stupid to go up there in the first place. She’ll never let me do this. I can’t ask her for this.”

Dean studied her, exasperation and sympathy warring in his eyes. After a moment, his face grew resolute. “Well, _I_ can ask her. I don’t want to play a Chaser short and I don’t know of anyone else who could play as well as you. She wants us to win, no matter what she says about not showing favoritism between the houses. Come on—”

“No!” Ginny pulled out of his reach. “No, I can’t. You go, if you want, but I can’t.”

He pressed his lips in a line and shook his head. “You’re wrong. She’ll do it. I’ll show you.”

With her stomach in knots, Ginny watched him step onto the moving staircase. As the gargoyle jumped back into place, she nearly passed out at the realization of what she’d done. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t let Dean do this. She should never have agreed to play. What had she been thinking? She’d let her emotions get the better of her again, and now it was too late to call him back.

For what seemed like forever, Ginny paced in a tight circle before the gargoyle. How long had he been gone? Things must not be going well. McGonagall apparently wasn’t as hungry for a Gryffindor win as he’d thought. Surely, he’d be back any minute, wouldn’t he?

Nervous fingers running her lightning bolt pendant up and down the chain around her neck, Ginny’s steps grew more restless, taking her in an ever-wider path, her cloak billowing at each pivot.

She ran into the memory as if it were a brick wall: this was exactly how she had waited for Harry, in this same spot, before the Slytherin match.

And then the wall tumbled in on her: she could almost feel his arms around her, his breath as his mouth covered hers, his hands moving over her back and down…

Her body trembled, as if starved for the most basic nourishment. What had she done? At the moment, she couldn’t even remember why she’d pushed him away. All she could feel was this gnawing hunger to see him, to touch him…

Where was he? Was he safe? How could she have sent him away like that?

Surprised and grateful to feel the cold stone of the corridor wall against her back—she would’ve crumpled to the floor, otherwise—Ginny sucked in great gasps of air. She had to get out of here, had to get back to her room and the privacy of her bed curtains before she fell apart.

The spiral staircase moved and she froze, unable to make her legs obey the command to run. When the gargoyle jumped out of the way, Dean’s face was grim.

“She wants to see you.”

Mouth dry and stomach twisting, Ginny struggled to get out one word: “Why?”

“She—,” he started, then grimaced. Ginny could tell he was seeing the dread on her face. “It’s not that bad. Just talk to her.”

Ginny closed her eyes and gathered her strength. As she stepped unsteadily onto the staircase, Dean stepped off. In a panic, she turned to look at him, grabbing for the handrail as the stairs started to move. “You’re not coming?”

“No, she wants to—” His words were cut off as the gargoyle jumped back into place and the wall closed.

Knuckles white on the rail, Ginny drew several deep breaths to keep her stomach from emptying itself. Her heart thrummed in her throat as she came to a stop before the polished oak door. A moment passed before her shaking hand could properly grasp the griffin doorknocker.

“Come in, Miss Weasley.”

Closing her eyes, Ginny dug deep for any remaining fragment of her Gryffindor courage. She found only the tiniest speck, but it was enough to help her turn the knob and walk through the door.

Professor McGonagall stood before her desk looking as forbidding as Ginny had ever seen her. Through sheer force of will, Ginny made her feet carry her across the floor to the chair the headmistress indicated. She sank into it, grateful not have to support her weight any longer on her quaking legs.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” Ginny asked, keeping her eyes down, carefully studying the intricate pattern in the carpet beneath her feet.

“Yes. We haven’t had a chance to talk since you left last term. I had thought you might come to see me without being summoned, but when you didn’t come right away, I decided to give you a chance to settle in before checking on you. How are you doing since you’ve returned?”

Ginny squirmed in her chair at the mild admonishment, but couldn’t bring herself to meet the headmistress’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Professor. I should have come to see you. I didn’t think… I’m much better, thank you.”

“And your studies... how are classes going?”

“I... I’m doing a bit better. I’m trying…” Trailing off as she realized she had little evidence to support her case, Ginny was surprised when McGonagall’s voice softened a bit as she spoke.

“Yes, I would imagine you have a hard time concentrating. But I’m glad to see that your attendance has improved. You seem to be eating more regularly, as well. Miss Granger’s presence helps, does it not?”

Ginny finally looked up. “Oh, yes. Yes, Hermione’s been brilliant. Thank you for letting her come back.”

Professor McGonagall nodded and studied her a moment before continuing.

“So. Mr. Thomas has requested that you be allowed to continue playing with the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

Ginny’s face flamed and she dropped her eyes back to the carpet. “Yes.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I told him it wasn’t possible, that I wouldn’t be allowed, that I don’t deserve…” She stopped again as her throat closed. She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. “I’m sorry, Professor. I... last term... I didn’t mean... I didn’t plan to… when I went up there, I just wanted to fly.” And suddenly the tears and the words fell over each other in a rush. “I just wanted to get away for a little while and it was so quiet and peaceful and I didn’t have to think and that was the problem, that I quit thinking. I really didn’t mean for things to turn out the way they did and I never did thank you for keeping me from... for saving me. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

McGonagall handed her a handkerchief just like the one she’d handed her first term and that made Ginny cry all the harder because she’d given the first handkerchief to Lisa and had never returned it to its owner. It was a symbol of all her failures over the past year, the things she’d done without thinking that had hurt so many people. Was she never going to be able to do anything right again?

Ginny’s sobs had quieted considerably before McGonagall spoke again. “I don’t think it’s completely out of the question for you to play with the Quidditch team again.”

Her head popping up from the handkerchief, Ginny hiccoughed in surprise. “You’d let me play?”

“Perhaps. Under certain conditions.”

Right that minute, more than anything, Ginny wanted to banish the look of pity and disappointment from McGonagall’s eyes. For whatever reason, her friends and family, and even McGonagall, seemed to think she was worth worrying over and caring about. She’d given them nothing in return for so long.

In the grand scheme of the world, Quidditch still didn’t seem important. It was a game, for Merlin’s sake. But everyone around her seemed to think it was important... or at least important that she play. She knew it wouldn’t be easy to overcome her demons and find the strength to do it, but playing Quidditch suddenly seemed like the right thing to do. It was such a small thing, really… the least she could do for everyone. She could do this.

She squared her shoulders and met McGonagall’s eyes with determination. “What do I have to do?”


	23. The Potions Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny struggles to meet McGonagall's requirements for playing Quidditch, and begins to recognize the value—and the cost—of having Hermione at school with her.

Tuesday dawned clear and cold, but in spite of the sun shining brightly in the pale winter sky, Ginny could feel the black cloud forming over her head as the morning wore on. Scowling at the ground, she trudged listlessly after Hermione and pointedly ignored Dean behind her as they made their way back to the castle from the greenhouses.

After just one day, she could tell that McGonagall’s conditions for rejoining the Quidditch team were impossible: she had only three weeks to improve her class attendance and marks and to pass Madam Pomfrey’s physical exam (which meant improving her appetite and getting some sleep—both seemed hopeless). Meanwhile, the Gryffindor team would have to practice a Chaser short, and if Ginny couldn’t meet McGonagall’s requirements, they’d have less than three weeks to find and train another Chaser for the Hufflepuff match.

They were all mental to pin their hopes on her. And she had been mental to agree to it. Dean had steadfastly refused her pleas to list her as a reserve and find someone else to take her place as a starter. He was determined that she would play, and had charged the team with helping to make sure she met the requirements—without cheating, of course. So they were taking it in turns to escort her everywhere, bring her snacks, help her revise, find books for her in the library… in short, drive her spare. She felt like a bloody baby the way they were all coddling her—even though she knew she’d never see the light of day if they didn’t. But that was beside the point. She didn’t need or want the constant attention. She just wanted to be left alone.

“So, you’re going to just ignore me?”

Ginny pulled up short at the familiar voice and squinted with surprise into George’s smiling face. “What are you doing here?”

“What? I can’t come for a visit? And anyway, what kind of a greeting is that for your most handsome brother?”

“Fred’s more handsome,” Ginny quipped without thinking, then cringed. It was a game they’d played since she was little—when Fred had greeted her that way she’d always sworn that George was more handsome. Now, after giving the automatic reply, she wanted to sink into the ground. The game wasn’t fun anymore.

With only a hint of sadness in his eyes, George just smiled and threw one arm around her shoulders and the other around Hermione’s. “So how are my _fav_ -o-rite sister and my soon-to-be-sister-in-law on this fine day?”

Ginny tipped her head to offer her usual token protest about being his _only_ sister, but stopped when she saw Hermione take a small package from the hand George had dangled over her shoulder.

“I’m just fine, thank you,” Hermione said, quickly slipping the parcel into her pocket and pulling away to give him a smile. “So nice to see you, but I’ve got to run. I need to check something at the library before Ancient Runes. You two have a nice visit.” And she was gone.

Ginny raised her eyebrows at George. “She didn’t seem very surprised to see you. What did you give her?”

“Ah, my dear baby sister.” Eyes twinkling, George gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Ron would have my head if I shared their secrets. He’s become such an annoyingly romantic sod since she’s started leading him around by the—”

“She does no such thing!” Ginny knew he was just taking the mickey, trying to distract her, but she felt honor-bound to defend Hermione. “Ron’s fancied her for years. He’s just afraid she’s going to find someone else. So, what was in—”

“And, how are _you_ doing? Are things better with Hermione here? What’s Hagrid breeding these days? That memorial is really something. You did a great job with it…” George’s steady chatter as he steered her into the Great Hall and settled them at the end of the Gryffindor table for lunch was an obvious effort to deflect her questions. But just as she was about to call him on it, he came up with a comment that stopped her cold. “Ron tells me you’re going to stay on the Quidditch team. That’s great!”

The black cloud dumped its icy shower of fear on her. She ducked her head and concentrated on buttering her bread. “Oh, erm, yeah. I, erm, yeah… maybe… if I can get my marks up…” Just like everyone else, he thought she should play and be excited about it—she couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on his face.

When he didn’t say anything for several minutes, she cut her eyes toward him.

He was frowning until he noticed her watching him, then he smiled. “You know, it’s such a nice day, we should have a picnic.” With a flick of his wand, he conjured a basket and stood to fill it with bread, cheese, and fruit from the platters on the table.

“George, it’s freezing outside!”

“And why do you think they invented warming charms, dearest sister? Come, now. Where’s your Weasley sense of adventure?” He grabbed a flask of pumpkin juice and, with a grand flourish, gestured for her to lead the way.

George guided her to a secluded spot between two boulders that blocked the brisk breeze that had kicked up while they were inside. He conjured a blanket for them to sit on and cast a warming spell over their little nook while Ginny took the food from the basket. They ate and watched the ripples on the lake as he caught her up on news of their parents and gave an animated account of Fleur’s progressing pregnancy, complete with exaggerated French accent.

“ _Mon dieu_ , I am getting zo fat. Beel! I zimply must ’ave _boudin avec creme caramel_ right now! Zey cannot prepare zis properly ’ere. You must go now to _chez Maxime_ _en Paree_.”

“Bou-what?” Ginny asked. “What _is_ that?”

“Blood sausage with caramel custard.”

“Eww. You’re having me on! She didn’t really ask for that, did she?” At his protest of truth and pantomime gagging, Ginny actually laughed—a real joyful giggle—and began to relax in the warmth of the sun and his easy company. Even though he still walked under a shadow of grief, this George seemed more like the one she’d known before the war. She had missed him. “So how are things at the shop?”

“Slowed down a bit since the hols, but still good.” George sighed. “Fred and I had always talked about opening a second store in Hogsmeade to take advantage of our primary target market year-round. The way business is going in London, it might be possible by autumn.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Ginny was confused by his glum look. Something more than missing Fred was bothering him.

“Oh, very good. But I’m not sure I can handle it by myself.”

“By yourself? But Ron—”

“Ronnikins is getting restless. I don’t think his heart is in the shop. He only came to work there because I needed him to get things going again after…” George looked over the water for a moment before continuing as if he hadn’t stopped. “He hasn’t said anything, but I think he’s got a mind to get into the Auror Academy.”

Ginny nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. He always thought he and…” she choked on the word, but pushed through “…Harry… would go through together.” George’s expression grew dark at the mention of Harry’s name, so she quickly steered the conversation back to their original topic. “What will you do? About the shop, I mean?”

George shrugged. “Dunno. Hire more help, I guess.”

“I could work with you. After I leave school.”

George looked at her in mock surprise. “What, you don’t have aspirations to be a Ministry ponce like Perce?”

Ginny snorted. “Hardly.”

“And you don’t want to play Quidditch.” It wasn’t a question. He kept his eyes on the lake as he said it, which made it easier to hide her unease. She knew they weren’t just talking about career choices anymore.

“Not really.” She struggled to keep her tone even, but couldn’t completely hide her irritation. “It’s just a game. There _are_ more important things in the world, you know. I don’t know why everyone’s got their knickers in such a twist over it.” She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water, then gave all of her attention to breaking a twig into tiny pieces.

He watched her for several moments, then covered her hands with his and waited for her to look at him. “It’s not really about playing Quidditch, you know. It’s about keeping on. You have to just keep going. Don’t give up—not like I did.”

Ginny searched his eyes. He knew where she was. He’d been there. Last summer they’d all had to watch helplessly as he battled his demons, sometimes diving into the firewhiskey for so long that they thought he’d drown (she often longed for such an escape). Everyone in the family had been dealing with their own grief, but none of them had ever been where he was. Where she was now. Maybe she _could_ talk to him. He was the only one who could possibly understand.

“I know I shouldn’t give up,” she whispered. “But what if... what if I can’t do it? What if I let everyone down? Even if I get to play, what if I’m rubbish like last time?” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, finally voicing the fear that she’d been afraid to even think. “What if... what if I... I get up there and... and go round the twist again and... and... fall?”

“You’re afraid to fly?” She opened her eyes to find him goggling at her in astonishment. “The girl who broke through Mum’s wards to steal brooms when she was only six is _afraid_ to fly?”

She turned her head to look out over the lake, unable to watch his reaction to what she was going to say. “When I was up there, it was so quiet and still…I couldn’t remember when I’d felt so calm... so peaceful… I just wanted to stay there forever. I didn’t go up there to jump off, but when I fell…” She cut a nervous glance at him then ducked her head to watch her right hand toy with her empty left. “When I fell, it was okay. I wasn’t frightened. I... I was glad.”

When she finally gathered the courage to look up, she found him pale and grim-faced. His expression softened immediately and he pulled her over to sit in his lap as if she were four again with a skinned knee. She rested her head on his shoulder and savored the feel of his strong arms around her.

Pushing away the sudden memories of Harry holding her like that, she swallowed the knot in her throat and forced her voice to work. “What if I can’t fly again?”

He stopped stroking her back and held her away so he could look her in the eye. “Ginny. What have Fred and I always told you? Anything is possible—”

“—if you’ve got enough nerve,” she finished for him in a dull tone. “But that’s the problem. I don’t have any nerve anymore.”

He smiled and drew her close again. “Of course you do. You’ve just misplaced it for a bit. It’ll come back. You’ll see.”

And for a moment, she let herself believe him.

***

“Ginny! You’re not paying attention!”

Ginny’s eyes focused on Hermione sitting next to her, but her brain refused to join them. “Yes, I am,” she grumbled unconvincingly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What did I just say?”

“Erm…” Eyes closed and forehead wrinkled, Ginny searched her subconscious for a clue. “…that, erm, there are different kinds of, uh… memory… erm… sensitive and, erm… short… erm, short… time?... and, erm…”

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s sensory, short term, and long term. And that was five minutes ago. We’ve already got into Spalwark’s model of hippocampus manipulation as the basis of the Obliviation and Confundus Charms. Do we need to go over it again?”

Ginny dropped her head onto her arms with a groan. “Why do I have to know _how_ they work as long as I can cast them?” Although at the moment, as foggy as her head felt, she doubted casting them would be possible either.

“Understanding the theory allows better control over the spell. It helps determine which memories or actions are affected. You don’t want to erase a whole lifetime or cause permanent confusion, do you?”

Ginny peeked up from the crook of her elbow with one eye. “I don’t?”

Hermione cuffed her on the back of the head. “And that’s why certification is required to use advanced memory charms. Sit up and let’s go over it again before we have to leave for class. You’re going to need to know this. I’m sure it’s going to be on the NEWT exam as well. And eat. You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

Ginny sat up and took a bite of her eggs. She found it supremely ironic that Flitwick had begun covering the theory behind memory charms when she couldn’t remember anything to save her life. And she was positive this was far more information than she’d ever need for any essay or exam... or in real life. But she tried her best to look attentive and not let on how much she’d rather be back in her bed with the curtains drawn. She _had_ to do this. She’d told McGonagall she would and she couldn’t let everyone down. They were counting on her.

“The three main stages in the formation and retrieval of memory are Encoding…”

Almost immediately, Hermione’s voice faded into an unintelligible drone, as if it were being filtered through the buzz of a Muffliato _,_ and Ginny’s mind sank back into its perpetual fog.

Who was she fooling? She was never going to be able to do this. Class attendance was no problem, what with Hermione and Dean and the rest of the House monitoring her every move. But sleep and appetite were a joke. And she found it impossible to force her mind to focus on anything for more than two seconds at a time.

“Ginny!”

She snapped her eyes back into focus at Hermione’s scowling face. “I’m listening.”

“No, you’re not. You’re worse than Ron.”

“No, I am. I promise. What did you say?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “What is the primary role of sleep in improving memory?”

Ginny scrunched up her nose and bit her lip. “Erm…”

With a weary sigh, Hermione provided the answer. “Replay of the day’s activities by the hippocampus while the brain is at rest improves consolidation of new information and transfers it into long-term memory. But, then you wouldn’t know that because you never transfer anything into long-term memory because you never sleep.”

Ginny grimaced. “Do so.”

“No, you don’t. And I know that because I’ve set a monitoring charm on your bed.”

“You’ve set a... why you...that’s just...”

Hermione ignored Ginny’s indignant sputtering. “You never sleep more than an hour or two at a time and even then, you don’t sleep soundly—”

“Hermione, what makes you think—”

“—but, I’ve talked to Madam Pomfrey about sleep potions and she’s concerned about addiction, so we need to find another solution—”

“ _Hermione_!”

Blinking in surprise, Hermione finally stopped talking.

“What in Merlin’s bloody name gives you the right to monitor my sleep? Can’t I have _any_ time to myself? Are you going to start watching me in the bathroom, too?”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted and her voice was matter-of-fact. “Actually, I have monitoring charms in there, too.” At Ginny’s look of outrage, she broke into a wicked grin. “Just teasing… But, really, you won’t take care of yourself, so someone has to do it. And I’m glad to see you showing some temper. According to the books, that’s a good sign.”

Ginny slammed her hands onto the table and pushed herself up to lean over and glare at Hermione. “I’ll show you some temper. Stop analyzing me! Just back off and give me some time!”

“Three weeks isn’t much time. Actually, it’s only a bit over two weeks now. You’ll never make it at the rate you’re going.”

With a growl, Ginny flung her bag over her shoulder in a huff, nearly taking out a nearby third-year in the process. Hermione calmly collected her books and followed as Ginny stalked toward the door.

“So, I’ve been working on something that might help with your sleep and concentration,” Hermione continued as if Ginny were still listening. “We don’t have time to go into it now, but meet me in the entrance hall after your last class and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Ginny had turned to tell Hermione exactly what she could do with her new project when the owls arrived with the morning mail. As Pig flapped past her nose on his way to Hermione, Ginny dropped her bag to allow George’s owl, Greda, to land on her shoulder. By the time she had got her letter free and gathered her things again, Hermione was absently tapping Ron’s letter against her fingers and scanning the incoming flock with an anxious frown.

Ginny’s curiosity got the better of her anger. “What’s the matter?”

Hermione didn’t take her eyes from the ceiling. “Oh, nothing. I just thought... well, I was hoping a letter I’m expecting would come.” As the last of the owls flew in, she gave one last wistful glance upward and turned to leave. “I guess it’s not coming today.”

They had almost reached the door when the [ugliest owl](http://birdingeasterneurope.blogspot.com/2008/09/special-birds-long-eared-owl.html) Ginny had ever seen glided onto Hermione’s shoulder. Mottled gray with long tufted ears and a huge ridge of feathers down the middle of its face that gave it a cat-like appearance and made her wonder if Hagrid had been cross-breeding again.

The poor bird seemed exhausted, as if it had come a long distance. While Hermione coaxed the owl onto the table, Ginny grabbed a pitcher to pour some water into a bowl. Hermione seemed to be taking forever to free the letter from its bindings, almost as if she were trying to keep the envelope hidden while she worked at it. Curious, Ginny took a closer look... and nearly dropped the pitcher she was still holding. She’d know that handwriting anywhere.

Harry. The letter was from Harry

Ginny’s stomach plummeted to the floor and the memories rushed in like freed Cornish Pixies, wreaking havoc on her tightly controlled emotions. Hands shaking, she carefully set the water pitcher down and watched in detached wonder as Hermione got some sausage from a nearby plate that hadn’t been banished yet and murmured gently to the owl as she fed it.

“Thank you, Boris. You’ve had quite a trip, haven’t you? Can you take one back for me? You go on up to the Owlery and have a nice nap. I’ll bring it up to you later.”

Ginny watched in a daze as the owl soared toward the enchanted ceiling. Harry had written to Hermione—more than once, apparently, if she knew the bird’s name—and she’d never said a word. Turning her eyes back to Hermione, Ginny took a step backward as the hurt took hold.

Hermione hoisted her bag back to her shoulder and froze when she turned back to Ginny. Dismay washed over her face. “Ginny, it’s—”

But Ginny didn’t wait to hear. She spun toward the entrance hall and plunged into the sea of students, desperately fighting her way to the stairs. Irrational as she knew it was, she couldn’t talk about this right now. Betrayal was bearing down on her, chasing her back into the dark places of her mind. Thinking only of escape, she took the stairs two at the time to the second floor and dodged her way through the crowd to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. In spite of the terrifying memories the room held, it had served as her refuge since she’d returned to school. No one ever went in there, or if they did, Myrtle saw to it that they didn’t stay, especially if Ginny was visiting. Ginny was sure Hermione would look for her, but right now, she needed to get away and Myrtle’s bathroom was the perfect place to hide.

The dimly lit room was eerily quiet after the chaos of the hallway. Stopping inside the door only for a moment to catch her breath and wave Myrtle away, she stumbled into the darkest corner and sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around them.

She should have known. Of course, Harry would stay in touch with Hermione. He loved her like a sister. But seeing his handwriting on the envelope, knowing that she’d never see one with her own name on it again, had just been too much to bear. He was out there, somewhere, living his life, sharing it with other people…putting himself in danger, getting himself injured or killed… The image of his enraged face in the storeroom doorway filled her mind— _she’d_ probably never see or hear from him again. She knew she had no right to be hurt, no right to be angry. She knew this was all her own fault. But that didn’t stop the pain.

She didn’t cry. She had no tears, no emotions of any kind left…only a throbbing ache where her heart should have been and a horrible hollow, empty feeling, like she’d fallen into a deep black hole.

Why did it always happen this way? Things would begin to seem better—relatively speaking, anyway—and she’d start to think that maybe, if she tried hard enough, she might be able to start living again. Then someone would say something, or she’d walk past a familiar place, or a random thought would pop into her head, and the memories and the feelings and the pain would come crashing down to send her tumbling back into the abyss. And each time, the climb out grew harder and harder.

How was she supposed to fight this? The battles had been so much easier when the enemy was in front of her—Death Eaters, Greyback, even the Wizarding press. She knew how to duel, how to fight back against the evil pressing on her from the outside where she could see them coming at her. But these inner demons—the nightmares, the memories, the hopelessness—lived in the recesses of her mind where they could relentlessly catch her unaware. She had no defense against them.

Maybe she should give up. She couldn’t win. Maybe this time she should just let the blackness swallow her and be done with it.

She didn’t move or think—just sat and listened to the even rhythm of her own breathing, letting the fog of distant memories swirl aimlessly in her head. Without even trying, she could almost feel Harry’s arms around her. Hadn’t Hermione told her once about people who had lost an arm or a leg and said they could still feel pain in the missing limb? That’s how this felt… as if Harry were a piece of her that had been cut away, but she could still feel him—the warmth of his embrace, the tickle of his breath on her neck, the touch of his lips on hers. She sank willingly into the memory, into the limbo between waking and sleeping where time stood still.

Some time later, Ginny raised her head and scanned the room with bleary eyes, uncertain of what had called her back into consciousness. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there... or how long Lisa had been watching her through Myrtle’s protective stance. Without acknowledging the intrusion, Ginny lowered her head back to her knees.

“Everyone’s looking for you,” Lisa said quietly.

Ginny didn’t answer. They could bloody well look forever as far as she was concerned. Only now they’d know where to look, because Lisa would tell them. A spark of irritation ignited in her chest. She wondered if she could still imitate Parseltongue enough to open the Chamber of Secrets. She’d gladly risk reliving her worst nightmares for a bit of peace. They’d never find her there.

“They’re worried, you know?” Ginny heard Lisa take a tentative step forward; Myrtle deserted her post with an indignant squeak.

Ginny didn’t respond.

“You helped me last term.” Lisa knelt beside her. “I’d like to help you… if you’d let me.”

The memory of finding Lisa in this very spot rolled over her; Ginny pushed it angrily away. “You can help by going away,” she said in a tight voice without lifting her head.

“Please, Ginny, I—”

“I said go away!” Ginny looked up with an angry glare. She just wanted to be alone. Why couldn’t they understand that? “You got what you wanted. Now go away.”

Lisa looked hurt and puzzled. “Got what I wanted? What—”

“He’s gone!” Ginny spat at her. “You won! Now go away!”

Eyes wide with hurt and surprise, Lisa sat back on her heels. “No... I didn’t mean—”

“GET OUT!” Ginny’s screams echoed off the cold stone walls. “JUST GET OUT! WHY CAN’T EVERYONE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

Lisa scrambled to her feet and out of the door with a fleeting tearful glance. Ginny knew she might regret it later, but right now it felt good to hurt someone else, to share the pain. If they wouldn’t leave her alone, they could just bloody well deal with the consequences.

She nursed her anger for a bit, half expecting Hermione or Dean or McGonagall to swoop in and carry her off to St. Mungo’s. But no one came. And eventually, her heart rate slowed and her breathing evened and her brain cloistered itself once more in its soothing fog.

By the time she heard the door creak slowly open, she was stiff and chilled to the bone from sitting so long in one position on the icy floor. She knew without having to look that Hermione had slipped quietly over and sat next to her. But the anger was past. Only the dull ache in her chest remained.

“I’m sorry.” Hermione’s low voice echoed softly through the room. “I wanted to tell you, but... well, you seemed to be doing a bit better and whenever...” She stopped for several long moments and when she started again, her voice sounded strange, as if she had something stuck in her throat. “Whenever his name comes up, you look so... lost and I... I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t know what to do.”

Ginny didn’t answer. No matter how satisfying it was to hear Hermione say she didn’t have all of the answers, Ginny just couldn’t push away the hurt long enough to let forgiveness take hold. The quiet settled over them and Ginny drew it protectively around her, allowing it to lull her back into her safe haven.

“It’s Viktor’s owl.”

After the long silence, Hermione’s voice startled her. Ginny frowned into her knees. Viktor? Ah... Krum. Questions exploded inside her head. Before she could stop it, one escaped…

“Is he okay?” She couldn’t bring herself to look up, but she was certain that they both knew she wasn’t talking about Viktor.

Ginny held her breath until Hermione finally answered, “Yes.”

When she didn’t say anything more, Ginny had to fight to hold in the other questions—she had no right to ask them. Relief made her limp when Hermione continued.

“He doesn’t write often... this is only the third letter I’ve got. And he doesn’t say much. He doesn’t say anything about what he’s doing or where he is. Only that he’s fine.”

When Hermione stopped speaking, Ginny held her breath, praying for more. But Hermione’s voice faltered when she spoke again.

“He won’t... if I... if we write...” She stopped for so long Ginny thought she wasn’t going to finish. Finally, in a weary voice, she continued. “How much do you want to know?”

How much _did_ she want to know? _Not_ knowing was driving her mad. But knowing? Knowing might hurt more. Knowing might just send her over the edge. But it might not. Perhaps knowing would be like pulling a splinter from her finger. If she left it in—if she _didn’t_ know—it would fester and the hurt would never end. But if she pulled it out—if she knew—the pain would be intense for a bit, but then she could start to heal. She raised her head with a look of grim determination; her voice cracked on the words. “All of it.”

Hermione nodded. Was that approval in her eyes? She took a deep breath and began in a firm voice. “Sometimes our letters come back unopened. I think the owls can’t find him…maybe because he’s wearing a disguise or is someplace that they can’t reach him. But sometimes... sometimes they don’t come back and he... he just doesn’t answer. It’s the same for Fleur. We’ve finally worked out that it happens when... when we write anything about you.”

Ginny sagged against the wall and closed her eyes. The black hole had just got deeper and darker. He had cut her out of his life completely. But didn’t she deserve it? Wasn’t that what she’d asked for? She released a shuddering breath.

“Have you...” Hermione’s voice sounded thoughtful. “Have you thought of writing to him yourself?”

Ginny gave a grunt of humorless laughter. “Only the last one... when I sent...” She couldn’t finish the thought.

She opened her eyes to find Hermione frowning into the distance and tapping her finger on her lips.

“What did you say? In the letter?”

Ginny sighed heavily as she ran her hands over her face and dug her fingers into her eyes to stop the sudden sting of tears against her lids. She cleared her throat a couple of times before she could speak. “I... I told him that what he saw at the shop wasn’t what he thought, but that I knew he’d never let me explain.” She stopped and took a couple of deep breaths to try to dislodge the knot that was forming in her throat. “I said... that I didn’t think it was right for me to keep his mother’s ring and that I knew I had lost any chance to make things right, but that I hoped one day we could be friends again and that... that no matter what I...” She had to stop and struggle for a moment to gain her composure. Her final words came out in a breathy whisper. “I would always love him.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot into her hair. “You told him that? And he left without answering?”

Ginny nodded, unable to speak.

Hermione frowned again and murmured to herself, “That’s not right. Why wouldn’t he answer?” After a moment she focused on Ginny. “You’re sure you sent the letter? You didn’t forget to include it, did you?”

The tears wouldn’t be held back any longer. “Hermione, please stop,” Ginny pleaded. “He got the letter and he left. How much more answer do I need?”

Hermione’s expression softened and she gave Ginny’s arm a little squeeze. “I’m sorry. I just... well, he was pretty angry and I don’t think he was thinking straight. I think you should write to him again. Maybe now...”

“If he won’t answer your letters when you write _about_ me, why would he answer a letter _from_ me?” The tears were coming faster now. “Besides, it wouldn’t change anything anyway. I can’t be what he needs... I can’t bear sitting around waiting for him to get himself killed... I can’t... I can’t...” She stopped, desperate to get control of herself.

“It’s okay. We won’t talk about it anymore now. But think about it, okay?” Hermione conjured a handkerchief and waited a moment for Ginny to calm down before continuing. “I actually came to talk to you about something else. Will you come with me?”

Ginny blew her nose and heaved a heavy sigh. “Do I have a choice?”

Hermione gave a humorless half-smile. “Not really, no.”

Resigned to her fate, Ginny pushed herself stiffly from the floor. The room swam dangerously. Hermione grabbed her elbow and led her gently through the door.

The hall was deserted except for Dean lounging idly against the wall opposite the bathroom. He nodded in greeting and took Ginny’s bag from Hermione, then fell into step behind them as they made their way upstairs. Ginny kept her head down, partly to keep from tripping over her uncooperative feet and partly to avoid seeing the occasional groups of students who whispered among themselves as they passed.

When they reached the seventh floor landing and headed away from Gryffindor Tower, Ginny turned wide eyes on Hermione. “Where are we going?”

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Dean before answering. “I’ll explain when we get there.”

Ginny didn’t like the sound of that at all. Her stomach twisted as she realized that she couldn’t get away even if she’d had it in her to try. Hermione was still holding her arm and Dean was bringing up the rear like a guard—Ginny wasn’t sure if they were protecting her or keeping her from escaping. The twist in her stomach tightened when they met Neville leaning against the jamb of an all too familiar open door—the Room of Requirement.

Ginny’s sluggish mind kicked into gear and she struggled to pull away from Hermione’s grasp. “Wait! Hermione, no! I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” Hermione said in a soothing tone, tugging Ginny firmly through the door. “It’s a different room. Please, just trust me.”

Once inside, Hermione left her and went to tend the cauldron simmering on a worktable, which also held at least two-dozen phials of a sunny yellow potion. Ginny gazed cautiously around the room—it looked like a smaller version of the Potions classroom, but with a comfortable sitting area in front of the fireplace.

A thousand questions battled with the frustration and irritation in her head, but a resounding _pop_ suddenly cut them off and something small and bony wrapped itself around her knees. She stumbled awkwardly backward into the overstuffed chair Dean pushed up behind her.

“Oh, Miss Wheezy, Miss Wheezy. Winky is being so sorry you’s feeling so poorly. Winky has brought you good warm broth and fresh bread and hot tea. Winky is wanting you feeling better soon. Winky must be taking care of Mist—”

“Careful, Winky.” Hermione’s quiet warning stopped the elf’s breathless prattle and she lowered her eyes in shame.

“Winky, is being careful, Miss Hermione. Winky is just being so worried about Mist—about Miss Wheezy.” Head still lowered, she peeked up at Ginny.

Ginny slumped back into the cushions and crossed her arms over her chest as she looked grumpily at the nervous house elf.

“Thank you for your concern, Winky. But I’m not hungry.”

Exhausted and angry about being ambushed, Ginny wanted so badly to storm out, but she knew they’d stop her and she didn’t have the strength to fight them. But she wasn’t about to make whatever they had in mind easy.

“Ginny.” Dean came around and knelt beside her. “You haven’t eaten all day. And now you’ve hurt Winky’s feelings.”

Ginny ignored the twinge of regret at the elf’s crestfallen look and turned a frosty glare on Dean, Neville, and Hermione in turn.

“I want to know what’s going on. Why are we here?”

They all exchanged nervous looks as Dean moved back to his spot beside her chair and Hermione moved in front of the table to take center stage. She folded her hands before her and cleared her throat. Ginny rolled her eyes. Lecture time.

“Do you remember I told you last week that I’d done some research?”

Biting back the snide remark on the tip of her tongue, Ginny cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

“Do you remember this morning, when I said I’d been working on something?”

“Hermione, please just get to the point.”

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out decisively. “I’ve been working on a potion that will work sort of like the Muggle anti-depression drugs.”

Ginny ran a hand over her face and sighed wearily. “I told you I don’t want to bother with any of that. I just need some time.”

“We’ve given you time and you’re not getting any better. If anything, you’re getting worse.” With a quick glance at Neville and Dean, Hermione gave Ginny a piercing look. “When you disappeared today, we were terrified for you. And with all of us missing classes to look for you, we weren’t able to keep it from McGonagall. Ginny, she’s ready to notify St. Mungo’s. I know how much you don’t want that. We convinced her to let us try this, but if it doesn’t work—if you won’t let us help you—I’m afraid we won’t be able to stop her. You need help, but you won’t ask for it. So we’re going to give it to you whether you want it or not.”

Hermione finished and pressed her lips together, a crease forming between her brows as she watched for Ginny’s reaction. The others were watching her, too. None of them seemed to be breathing.

Ginny stared back, her brain a jumble of shock and anger and fear. She could hear only a great roaring in her ears as her emotions swirled through her head like a whirlwind. Sitting forward in the chair, her knuckles whitened as she gripped the arms of it, dragging in great ragged gasps of air to keep from screaming or crying or both. Her voice came out in a harsh whisper.

“What? You think I’m completely insane now? So you’ve concocted some potion to keep me under control?”

“No!” Hermione stopped and closed her eyes, clearly trying to rein in her emotions. When she opened them again, she spoke more gently. “No, we don’t think you’re insane. We think you’re... ill. And we just want to help.”

Ginny’s voice grew shrill. “Well, maybe I don’t want your help—”

“I now understand why you insisted on including the wit-sharpening ingredients, Miss Granger.” The silky sarcasm of Severus Snape’s voice coming from the portrait over the fireplace stopped Ginny’s breathing along with her rant. The Potions Master looked as dour and formidable in his artist’s conception as he had in life, and sounded just as insulting as ever. “I do hope you’ve changed your mind about the Runespoor eggs. I believe your... patient—” he cut his eyes at Ginny “—is going to need the stronger ingredients.”

“I told you I won’t use black market ingredients unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Hermione responded, not the least bit intimidated. “We’re going to try the armadillo bile and scarab beetles first.”

Ginny stared at the portrait in icy shock. Headmasters’s portraits usually hung in the Headmaster’s office. Where had this one been placed? And why did it even exist? Would they really honor such an evil headmaster with a portrait?

Harry had tried to convince her that Snape wasn’t the traitor they’d believed him to be; she’d seen too much treachery to agree, but she didn’t want to spend their precious moments together arguing about Snape, so she’d kept her mouth shut. Not even Harry could convince her to let go of her hatred—last year had simply been too traumatic to forgive and the memories of the horrible things he’d done as headmaster still haunted her dreams as violently as Greyback’s attack.

She stared at the portrait and struggled to force her brain to function, to process the conversation that was taking place. And then it hit her—

“You asked him to help you?” Ginny’s voice rasped in outrage that blasted away the ice that had filled her at the sight of Snape. She jumped to her feet, sending Hermione stumbling backward in surprise. “YOU ASKED _HIM_ TO HELP YOU? And you think I’m going to drink anything that that... that... that...  _bastard_ made?”

Hermione reached for her but Ginny spun out of her reach. “Ginny, calm down! He didn’t make it. I did. It’s—”

“But he told you how. How do you know it’s not poisoned? Or got some horrific spell brewed into it? I can’t believe you’d even talk to him after what he did last year—Hermione, you have no idea what it was like here, the things he did! You don’t know what we went through!” She wheeled on Neville. “How can you even _think_ of letting her do this after everything he did?” She turned back to Hermione. “He’s vile and evil and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take any potion he’s taught you to make. You can’t make me. You think you’re helping me, well you’re not! If you’re so worried about missing class, just leave me the hell alone and go! All you care about is bossing me around—” she whirled and pointed at Dean “—and all _you_ care about is winning the effing Quidditch Cup.” She stopped, still quivering with rage as she gave them each a glare worthy of a Basilisk. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want your so-called help and you can’t _make_ me do _anything_!”

Summoning all of her remaining shreds of dignity, she stalked to the door and pulled on the latch. Then pulled again. And again. It wouldn’t budge. She gave free rein to her fury. They were _not_ going to do this to her! She reached for her wand. _No!_ They hadn’t… Heart racing, she desperately searched her pockets, then spun around, pressing her back against the door. Dean was watching her sadly, her wand in his hand.

Rage turned to blind panic as she turned and jerked in vain on the handle, beating uselessly against the rough wood. She was trapped, like an animal in a cage. These were supposed to be her friends. Why were they doing this to her?

“Ginny, please come sit down.” Neville’s strong arm went around her shoulders as he murmured in a soothing tone. “Please let us help you.”

She beat futilely against the door for another moment, sobs wracking her body as Neville gently pulled her away. She fought him with all of her strength.

“No, please. Please. I can’t stay in here. Not with him. Please… please… let me go… let me go…” She didn’t know what they were planning, but she had to get out, to crawl back into her safe haven where no one could find her again. But the day’s inactivity and lack of food had taken their toll, and Neville easily subdued her.

Hermione had turned away, her shaking shoulders the only sign of the emotion she was trying to hide. Winky paced and fretted quietly in the corner with frequent looks at Hermione, as if waiting for permission to run to Ginny. Dean looked ready to punch something, but he remained still and averted his eyes as Neville stoically settled her back into the chair and turned to look at Snape.

“Perhaps you should go for now, Professor,” Neville said.

“Yes,” Snape said. “I have no wish to witness this melodrama. I would like a report on the outcome later, Miss Granger.” Without waiting for a response, he disappeared behind the edge of the frame.

Ginny curled into a tight ball and tucked her face into her knees, sobs still jarring her. She heard Hermione take several deep, shaky breaths.

“I know this is hard. We didn’t want to do it this way. We’d hoped…” Hermione’s voice wavered, but grew stronger as she continued. “It’s not easy for us, either. But we can’t watch you go on like this any longer. And we don’t want you to have to go to St. Mungo’s any more than you want to go.”

“Ginny…” Dean’s voice sounded close, like he’d knelt next to her. When he tried to take her hand, she jerked it away and pressed herself into the chair cushions. He cleared his throat and his voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Ginny, I don’t care about the Quidditch Cup. I care about _you_. I... we... we only thought getting you interested in Quidditch again would help. You used to love it so much. We thought if we could get you to play, that you’d feel more like yourself again. We just want you to feel better…that’s... that’s all.” His voice had grown quieter as he spoke until it ended on a croak.

Ginny didn’t look up, although her sobs were less violent now. She heard Dean move away after a moment and Neville’s voice come from behind the chair.

“Ginny, I know you can’t forgive Snape for last year, but—”

She jerked her head up to glare at him. “Forgive him for _last year_? Neville, he _killed_ Dumbledore. _He’s_ the reason Harry’s parents are dead. And last year... Merlin, I relive that nightmare every night. I can’t fall asleep without hearing the screams of tortured students in my head. You’re asking me to just forget about all of that?”

Neville glanced nervously at Hermione. She nodded encouragingly. He straightened his shoulders before turning back to Ginny. “You heard what Harry told Voldemort. Dumbledore was dying anyway... he’d arranged it all ahead of time. Snape was in a hard place, Ginny. Think about it. When he caught us stealing the sword, he could have killed us. Any other Death Eater would have. At the very least, he should have turned us over to the Carrows for punishment. But he didn’t. He sent us to Hagrid. He _had_ to have known where Hagrid’s loyalties were. He had to have known that was no punishment at all. He couldn’t help us, but he did what he could.”

Ginny buried her head in her arms, covering her ears to block out Neville’s voice. She didn’t want to hear this. She refused to consider the possibility of Snape’s innocence, no matter what Neville—or Harry—said. Neville had turned on her. The one person in the room she’d thought would understand had crossed over to join the enemy and she wanted no part of him, of any of them.

Neville’s voice was closer the next time he spoke. “Ginny, you don’t have to forgive him. But I think it would be better if you could. Harry did, you know…and he had a lot more to forgive. If you could let go of the anger, if you could forgive him for your own sake, if not for his…” He paused as Ginny’s breathing grew louder and more ragged from the rage pulsing inside of her. How dare he say such things? She gritted her teeth as he continued. “But even if you can’t, Hermione needed help with this potion and he’s the best Potions Master we know—”

She sat up and pushed Neville out of the way. “No! I won’t! You can do whatever you want, but I won’t forgive him, ever! I don’t want anything to do with him or any of you. Just let me out of here and leave me alone!”

“Fine, then.” Hermione’s eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks blotched, but her jaw was set. “If you won’t let us help, then we have no choice but to get you to St. Mungo’s.”

As she turned to take the jar of Floo powder from the mantle, a wave of terror washed away Ginny’s anger. She lurched forward to grab Hermione’s arm, sending the jar of powder crashing to the floor.

“No! Hermione, no, please, don’t... I can’t... the press... please don’t... please... why are you doing this? Why? Why…” Her words disintegrated into convulsing sobs. Wrapping her arms around herself, she backed away watching them all warily through the blur of tears.

Hermione took a step forward, reaching for Ginny, but when Ginny backed away again she stopped and drew a heavy breath. “Because we love you,” she said, her voice sad and weary. “Ginny, you can’t go on like this. Please let us help you. If you won’t, I _will_ get you to St. Mungo’s.” Hermione’s eyes held a mixture of hope and determination.

Ginny drew a shuddering breath and swiped impatiently at her eyes. She was so tired, so incredibly drained. They seemed determined to torment her, and she had no more strength to fight them.

“What... what do you want to do?” she whispered.

Hermione seemed to relax. “Only a bit more than we’ve been doing. We’ll keep making sure that you eat properly and get plenty of sleep and exercise... and we’ll add the potion. I still wish… well, we’ll try this for now and see how it goes.”

A potion. A potion that Snape had helped to concoct. Ginny shuddered again. What did it matter, anyway? No matter what they did, no matter what they poured into her or forced her to do, she knew she was condemned to this living hell of her own creation. Maybe she should go ahead and let Snape poison her. It might be the easiest way out.

“So, you’ll let us help?” Hermione prompted when Ginny took too long to respond.

Resigned to the inevitable, Ginny nodded, but kept the defiant look on her face as she gingerly picked up one of the phials and held it to the light. The yellow and gold swirls seemed to have a life of their own. “What is it?”

“It’s a variation on the Draught of Peace in combination with Euphoria Elixir... a milder version that can be taken in a steady dosage over an extended period so it builds up in your system and has a more lasting effect. Neville got some St. John’s wort to add to it... the Muggles use it to fight depression. And, of course, you already know that it’s got armadillo bile and scarab beetles.”

“Wit sharpening ingredients,” Ginny said sullenly. “You really _do_ think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

Hermione huffed out a frustrated breath. “No! I know you’re not stupid. It’s to improve your concentration.”

Ginny gave her a doubtful look that changed to blatant disbelief when she remembered what else Snape had said. “You wouldn’t really use black market ingredients, would you?”

Hermione didn’t even blink. “Not unless we have to.”

Ginny studied her cautiously, unsure of whether to be angry or grateful that Hermione would even consider going to those lengths for her. She looked back at the phial in her hand. Even though she was holding it perfectly still, the swirls of amber and sunshine danced together like ribbons in a breeze. At least it didn’t look like mud or some other vile substance. But she still didn’t trust it. Hermione might be the cleverest witch of the age, but Snape had been living a Dark double life for more years than any of them had been alive. Ginny had no doubt that, even from the grave, he could have done anything he wanted to the potion. 

She looked up to find them all watching her. With an obstinate glare around the room, she removed the stopper and lifted the phial to her lips. “I guess we’ll know in a moment if Snape can really be trusted.”

Hermione paled. Ginny tipped up the phial and drank. The taste was like nothing she’d ever had in her mouth and reminded her of summers in the paddock behind the Burrow. She held her breath, waiting for the potion to take effect.

Nothing happened.

Short of a quick but agonizing death, she wasn’t sure what she’d expected... perhaps, at the very least, steam coming from her ears or a warm feeling in her stomach. But she felt nothing. She might as well have drunk pumpkin juice or water. Neville and Dean were watching her as if they thought she might sprout horns or something. Hermione looked… relieved?

“Well?” Ginny demanded. “Did it work? I don’t feel any different.”

Hermione smiled. “You will.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure.” Hermione gestured at the rows of swirling yellow phials on the table. “I’ve made enough for a month, to start, but this is all experimental.”

Ginny gave a derisive snort. “Great. I’m a Potions experiment.” She held out the empty phial to Hermione. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, let me finish up here and we can—”

Ginny cut her off with a glare. “I’m perfectly capable of getting back to the dormitory by myself.”

Hermione studied her for a moment, then conferred wordlessly with Neville and Dean. She finally turned back to Ginny with a contrite nod. “Let Winky take the food up for you. You probably shouldn’t have taken the potion on an empty stomach.”

Ginny looked at the tiny elf dancing anxiously before the fireplace, her huge eyes pleading. “Please, Miss Wheezy. Please let Winky be bringing the food.” At Ginny’s reluctant nod, Winky smiled all over her face and popped into thin air, taking the supper tray with her.

With a sigh, Ginny hoisted her bag to her shoulder and held out her hand to Dean. He looked in question at Hermione and, when she nodded approval, held the confiscated wand out.

Ginny wrapped her fingers around the proffered handle and watched Dean’s Adam’s apple bob twice when she kept the tip pointed at him after he let go. She had half a mind to hex them all... and they knew it.

Dean had a wary look in his eye, Hermione’s face held resignation, and Neville had drawn his wand. Ginny had to admire Neville for the thought... his defense moves had improved dramatically last year, but Ginny knew she was faster. He’d never get a shield up before she got to them.

But suddenly, even as angry as she still was, she just didn’t have it in her to hex them. Exhaustion dropped onto her like a heavy chain, weighing her down, crushing all of the fight out of her. Without a word, she dropped her arm and dragged herself to the door. It opened easily this time and slammed behind her with a satisfying boom that echoed down the hallway.


	24. A Game of Kat and Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Focused on his obsession with finding Dolohov, Harry stumbles into dangerous territory.

Harry flattened himself into the shadows, waiting until the echoes of the footsteps had receded into silence before he allowed himself to breathe normally again. He counted to fifty to be sure they were gone, then dashed down the hallway, dodging back and forth to avoid the glow of the low-burning torches spaced alternately along the walls. For the umpteenth time, he cursed the disappearance of his Invisibility Cloak during Dolohov’s escape; in spite of using both Polyjuice and the strongest Disillusionment Charm he could muster, he felt exposed and vulnerable.

As he counted doors to be sure he got the right one, a knot of fear formed in his chest. This had been too easy. Surely a place this important would have stronger wards, wouldn’t it? None of the charms he’d encountered had been that difficult to detect and bypass; he was beginning to worry that he might have missed something unfamiliar that would send a silent alarm. Or, perhaps Krum’s contact had managed to disengage the worst of them. Either way, Harry needed to finish quickly and get out.

He arrived at the twelfth door and paused to listen for approaching danger. The only sound was his own pulse roaring in his ears. A quick flick of his wand over the sign by the door translated the foreign words into English—he was at the right place—and a more complicated swish indicated the ward here was no more difficult than the rest. He disabled it quickly and paused a second before turning the knob, releasing his breath only when he was inside and the silence held.

He waited for his eyes to adjust—lighting his wand was too risky at this point. Pale moonlight spilled from the row of small, high windows opposite the door, casting eerie shadows about the cluttered space. Cubicles filled the center of the room, much like the Auror Headquarters in London. 

He moved carefully around the perimeter of the room, checking for further protection charms as he went. The door was just where he’d been told he’d find it. This one was more heavily warded than any of the previous ones, but still not as much as he’d expected. Identifying and disabling the charms took several minutes; he held his breath after each spell, expecting the screeching to start at any moment. The night remained quiet.

Heart hammering in his chest, he inched the latch up, eased the door open, and slipped inside. The darkness in this room was complete.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he whispered, then stifled a groan.

What looked like thousands of filing cabinets stretched far into the blackness in every direction. Looking for the right drawer would take too long, but using magic on the files could set off the alarms. He’d have to risk it.

“ _Accio_  Dolohov file.”

He heard a drawer open in the distance and the whoosh of the file flying towards him—but no alarms yet. Snatching the folder from the air, he opened it and scanned the first few pages to be sure… yes, it was the right one. The thrill of success raced through him. Now all he had to do was make a copy and get out.

The Caterwauling Charm went off as soon as his wand tip hit the file.

“Bollocks!” He bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for the spell to finish.

Banishing the original file back to the drawer, he scrambled into the outer room and ducked into one of the darkened cubicles, shrinking the copied file and stashing it in his pocket as he went. He couldn’t tell how many guards burst through the hallway door, but they spread through the room quickly. Diving under a desk, he prayed that his Disillusionment Charm was strong enough. Once three sets of boots had passed by, he crept carefully in the opposite direction, crouching to keep his head below the short partitions.

One more corner. The open hallway door was in sight. Just as he tensed to sprint to safety, a burly guard rounded the opposite corner and shouted. Harry didn’t have to understand the language—the red jet of light that just missed his shoulder was all the translation he needed.

“ _Stupefy_!”

Harry’s shot hit its mark and he skidded into the hallway, running as hard as he could, dodging red streaks and throwing his own over his shoulder. He reached the juncture where he needed to turn right—more guards were coming from that direction. He turned left. They were gaining on him. Within seconds, he found himself in a large open space that reminded him of the atrium in his own Ministry. He zig-zagged through a row of statues to an indoor garden overhung with several balconies. From his shadowed hideaway, he could hear the guards getting closer, lighting the torches as they came.

In desperation, his mind raced for a way out… or maybe... he studied the balconies overhead. He’d never cast the spell on himself, but he’d never know unless he tried.

“ _Levicorpus_.”

Harry swooped by his ankle into the darkness above just as the guards lit the space where he’d been standing. He grabbed a passing balcony railing and maneuvered himself over it.

“ _Liberacorpus_.”

Crouching next to the railing, Harry watched the chaos below as they searched for him. With a quick renewal of his Disillusionment Charm, he slipped through the well-appointed office connected to the balcony and made his way quietly through the darkened hallways to the roof, then climbed down a drain pipe and ran to the street where he Disapparated. 

***

Harry sat on the terrace, pitching bits of broken twigs into the small blue fire. Between the magical flame and the warming charm he’d cast about himself, he didn’t much notice the brutal cold of the grey morning. He might not have noticed anyway, given that his mind was otherwise engaged... as usual. This was how he started each day... up well before dawn, staring into the fire as he chased his demons back into the shadows.

Or, rather, his demon. Singular. The one with flaming hair, eyes like melted chocolate, and rose-colored freckles in places that warmed his body from the inside. Each night, his unfettered mind wandered at will—always back to the same place…to the same person—and he would wake when the ache (in his chest and lower) grew unbearable. Even after all of these weeks, he could count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of times he’d not awakened with her name on his lips and those leftover fingers doing their best to assuage the accompanying throb beneath the covers.

So, every morning he sat in the frigid dawn, willing his mind and body back into submission, clearing his head for the coming day. He needed his mind during the day. Keeping his wits about him was the only way he could work through the challenge he’d set for himself. Even when he ran into situations that he had to muddle through out of ignorance and inexperience, he felt grounded, in his element, capable of working out solutions to the puzzles.

Unlike the puzzle he'd left behind. He still didn't completely understand what had happened, why things had fallen apart. He’d been willing to try to make it work, even if it had meant that he had to rethink his future. But she’d sent back his ring in the most impersonal way possible, and nothing she’d said in that travesty of an apology letter could make things right again. The memory of it still made his blood boil. In the end, he'd given up trying to sort it out and had put the whole mess down to his damnable fate—he just wasn’t meant to have a normal life with a family of his own. His heart’s desire was unrealistic, unattainable, undeserved.

And so he’d accepted his destiny and moved on—at least during the day when he had control of his mind.

During the day, he remained entirely focused on Dolohov—to the point that Summers had accused him of being obsessed. Harry reckoned he had good reason to be obsessed. Dolohov had bested him twice and escaped. And during their last encounter, he had severely injured Summers, then laughed as he killed a 15-year-old boy for no other reason than to wind Harry up.

Yeah, obsessed was the right word.

The terrace door opened, breaking into his thoughts

“Breakfast,” Summers growled. On his best days, Summers wasn’t a morning person. After a night like last night, he was a regular troll.

Harry tossed the rest of his twigs away and extinguished the blue flames as he stepped into the posh hotel suite—the nicest he’d ever stayed in, even during the post-war European “victory tour” that he, Ron, and Hermione had been pressed into. At least three times as large as Hermione’s tiny flat, the opulent suite had two bedrooms, each with it’s own luxurious bathroom, a large sitting room, a dining room, and a garden terrace that overlooked the city. Definitely an improvement over the tent they’d stayed in for the past couple of months, even if it was magically enhanced.

Harry wandered into the dining room where a house-elf was serving a sumptuous breakfast and Summers was slouched in his chair massaging his temples.

Ingalls peered at Harry over the top of his newspaper. “You disappeared early last night.” It wasn’t quite an accusation. Even if Harry had finally agreed to let him serve as a mentor, Ingalls sometimes took his role as the team patriarch a bit too seriously.

Harry shrugged as he sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. “I had some stuff to do.”

Ingalls folded the newspaper and tossed it across the table. “Stuff like that?”

Summers dropped his head onto his arms. “Too loud,” he moaned.

Harry smirked at the tangled mass of dark hair on the table as Ingalls held out his wand and summoned a small bottle from the bedroom, which he sat sharply next to Summers’s ear. The resulting bark of protest made Harry shake his head in wonder.

“Why do you do that to yourself?”

Summers glared before he downed the potion in one gulp and rested his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes while he waited for it to take effect.

Ingalls pointed at the newspaper again and raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Well?”

Harry skimmed the tiny article at the bottom of page 11—the headline said it all:  _Ministry Breached, Intruder Caught_. With a twinge of guilt for the homeless man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, he gave a humorless grunt and took a sip of tea before looking back at Ingalls.

“Looks like they don’t really want anyone to know about it. You covered for me?”

Though the question had been directed at Ingalls, Summers spoke without moving or opening his eyes. “I told them you went to bonk a bloke you met at the match.”

Harry’s jaw dropped in shock before he exploded. “Please tell me you didn’t! Half the team is—”

“Yeah…” Eyes still closed, Summers winced but broke into dreamy smile. “You should’ve seen their eyes light up. Not many people can boast having half the Bulgarian Quidditch team after their arse. Those are some big ol’ buggers, too. I’ll bet their pricks are—”

Harry flicked his finger. The stinging hex sent Summers leaping from his chair with a yelp.

Rubbing his ear, Summers glared at Harry. “Well, don’t worry about it too much. Katya disappeared about that time, too, so you  _could_  just say you were with her.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, great! That makes me feel better.”

“So I take it you weren’t?”

Harry ignored the remark as he went back to reading the newspaper.

“What’s the  _matter_  with you, you berk?” Summers’s tone said he clearly thought Harry was insane. “Every cock in the room jumped to attention when she walked in. She wouldn’t look at anybody but you, and you wouldn’t even get close enough to talk to her. Can you blame people for wondering if you’re a knob jockey? You need to just get your leg over with  _somebody_ —male or female—and get on with life! I’m bloody tired of listening to you wank in your sleep. It’s time to get over that she-dev—” He yelped again and danced out of the way of the series of hexes Harry started flinging with his wand.

“I’ve warned you about that for the last time. Piss off!”

“Hey! Stop! I’m unarmed! Potter! Stop!”

“Boys! Can we focus, please?” Ingalls’s weary voice brought the argument to a halt.

With one last scowl at Summers, Harry pocketed his wand and turned his attention to the huge omelet hanging over the edges of his plate.

Summers slumped back into his chair and snatched the newspaper from under Harry’s elbow. “Don’t know why we had to come here, anyway,” he grumbled. “At least in Bulgaria we were  _doing_  something. What’d we get—more than a dozen of Dolohov’s men in three raids? I’m ready for some action.”

Harry glared at him and washed down his eggs with a gulp of tea. “Well, maybe we’d do more if you weren’t pissed half the time and going after the wrong kind of action. That girl last night was about the silliest bint I’ve ever seen.”

Summers opened his mouth to retort, but Ingalls cut him short.

“Enough! Let’s get back to business, please.” Ingalls gave Harry a pointed look. “So, was it worth risking an international scandal?”

Harry pulled his wand again and whipped it twice in a circular motion, setting several privacy charms around the table. He frowned heavily at Ingalls and spoke in an undertone. “We shouldn’t be talking in here. They’re bound to have listening charms all over this place.”

“What the—?” Summers shook the paper at Harry with a look of outrage. “You broke into the effin’ Russian Ministry?  _And you didn’t take me_?” 

Harry jiggled the empty hangover potion bottle in Summers’s face. “You’d have been a great help, wouldn’t you? And keep your voice down.”

“ _Nobody_  should have gone,” Ingalls said to cut off further bickering. “The Minister— _our_  Minister—isn’t going to like this. The Russians are very protective of their jurisdiction rights. They said they would look for Dolohov themselves and let us know—”

“They’re not looking,” Harry said flatly. “Dolohov’s paid off too many people and Shacklebolt knows it. Why do you think he approved this trip? If I hadn’t run into Krum at the Bulgarian Ministry after that last raid, we’d still be sitting in the Bulgarian mountains, waiting for them to work through the bloody diplomatic hoops. You heard what Robards said: ‘Get caught and you’re on your own.’ You know as well as I do they’re expecting us to make the most of this opportunity.”

The Russian Ministry had refused to allow a team of British Aurors into the country to search for Dolohov. So, when Harry had bumped into Krum, they’d devised a plan to keep the search moving: even though Russia hadn’t been directly involved in the war, the border gates had been magically thrown wide for Harry Potter and his entourage to come as the guests of Viktor Krum to the Eastern European Quidditch Exhibition Tournament. Harry had hated playing the fame card, but it had got him into Russia, so it was worth it.

And, Krum had turned out to be worth much more than Harry had first realized. His extensive network of contacts in Russia, built from several years of working undercover with the Bulgarian Security Forces, had proved invaluable—they’d gathered a good bit of information, no matter what Summers said. Dolohov appeared to be terrorizing and taking over small, isolated Wizarding villages throughout Europe to establish bases for a network of illegal production and trade of black market goods. But Harry still didn’t have all of the background he wanted to determine Dolohov’s weaknesses.

“I’ll admit Robards is expecting us to find out what we can while we’re here,” Ingalls said, “but he meant for us to work through Krum’s network, not break into the Ministry.”

“It’s taking too long,” Harry said. “We’ve only got one more match before we have to leave. That’s what? Maybe two days at the most? We need to know where he came from, what’s driving him. At least now we’ve got some solid background information and some new leads. We might even get lucky and find someone who knows where he is now.”

“Why don’t you just ask your British contact?” The potion had finally worked its magic, but Summers was still sullenly rubbing his ear from Harry’s earlier attack. “Isn’t he the ultimate authority on Dolohov?”

Harry gritted his teeth at Summers’s sneering tone before muttering reluctantly, “I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

Truth be told, Harry was worried. After Dolohov’s escape, Malfoy had disappeared along with the Invisibility Cloak (Harry hoped the two were together). Harry hadn’t wanted to raise suspicions on either side by making direct inquiries, but he hadn’t got a response from the charmed Galleon and, on his two brief trips home to visit Teddy, he hadn’t been able to learn anything useful from Andromeda about either Draco or Narcissa. If Draco had openly broken probation, they’d have heard something through the Ministry reports Ingalls received each day. But Dolohov could also have put a Polyjuiced decoy in place to cover his tracks if he’d made an example of Draco as a traitor.

“What do you mean you can’t find him?” Summers was usually quick to catch on to when he shouldn’t push too hard, but his brain didn’t seem to function as well on hangover mornings. “He sets us up, nearly gets  _some_  of us killed, then disappears? Well, that’s just fuckin’ ducky, isn’t it?”

Harry resisted the urge to pound him. They usually got on well and Harry wouldn’t want anyone else at his back in a fight, but when Summers was in one of his moods, he could be dead annoying. “We’ll manage without him. I got enough last night to put us on the right track, but I don’t want to discuss it here. Let’s take a run. I think we have time to check out a couple of the leads that are close by.”

Over the previous ten days, they’d established a routine of “training runs” between matches to discuss strategy and investigate whatever leads they’d managed to find. The bustling city and Polyjuice made losing their Russian shadows relatively easy. But so as not to raise too many suspicions, sometimes one of them would stay behind to “nap” while the other two ran their usual course without slipping away—with the wireless charmed to snore, anyone listening wouldn’t realize that the “sleeping” member of the trio was actually out questioning contacts.

“We have to be back in time for that state dinner,” Ingalls said. “And you’d better not disappear tonight. It’s one thing to duck out of a Quidditch celebration, but you’re the guest of honor this evening and we won’t be able to cover for you.”

Harry grimaced. “Merlin, I hate those things.”

Summers snorted. “Yeah, must be hard, Potter, sitting at the head table and having everyone go on and on about how wonderful you are.”

“Right. I just love being on display and dodging questions about the worst ten months of my life without offending foreign dignitaries. I can’t imagine a better way to spend an evening.”

Summers gave him a speculative look, as if he’d never thought of it like that before, but shook it off and growled over his shoulder as he headed to the bedroom. “Well, at least you get to sit down and eat. Your ‘body guards’ will probably have to stand and watch the whole time.”

Harry sighed, wishing they could trade places.

***

Harry detested these events. Even more so now that he had more pressing matters to attend to. But at least he didn’t have to think too hard about what to do—Fleur’s voice still echoed in his head, talking him through the proper responses so he could function automatically:  _Stand up straight… smile, but only a little… look at the eyes… shake ’ands firmly, but do not crush the bones… bow a little to the ladies… you are the ’ero—act like it!_  This last they’d always disagreed over, but in the aftermath of the war, he hadn’t had much will to fight her, so she’d ingrained in him what she considered the perfect demeanor for the Saviour of the Wizarding World; now he could slip into the role without thinking.

With only minimal attention required for shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, the rest of his brain had plenty of time to mull over the afternoon’s activities. Or, rather, lack of activities. The leads they’d checked had been dead ends: a supermarket had replaced the building on the outskirts of town where Dolohov was reported to have lived as a child and no one in the area knew (or was willing to admit they knew) any of the family listed in the file.

As he stood next to the Russian Minister in the receiving line, automatically greeting the seemingly endless parade of guests, Harry was so engrossed in planning his next move that he was totally unprepared to meet the familiar, startlingly blue eyes of the last person in line.

“Hallo, Harry. It is so good to meet with you again.” Her voice was lilting and seductive, wrapping around him like a cat looking to be stroked.

Summers had been right about Katya’s effect on the male anatomy—Harry was glad he was wearing formal robes that hid his reaction, even though he was also slightly surprised by it. Yes, she was stunning—vivid blue eyes, creamy smooth skin, long silky hair the color of dark treacle—but looking at her across the room last night when she’d made her grand entrance at the Quidditch celebration, he’d felt no more attraction than he did for Fleur. And when he’d noticed that she was working her way through the crowd toward him like a panther stalking prey, he’d slipped out of the back door so he wouldn’t be diverted from his plans.

Now, however, with Katya’s warm, soft hand in his as she stood close enough to give him a whiff of her intoxicating perfume and a teasing view of what lay beneath the draped neckline of her ice blue gown, he could feel the full blast of her magnetism. His sex-starved eighteen-year-old body quivered in response, refusing to listen to his logical Auror brain—which seemed to have shut down altogether. Her allure was so potent, he wondered if she might be at least part Veela or have some other magical quality about her.

The Minister’s chuckle brought him back to earth.

Harry's cheeks flamed as he realized he’d been staring. “Oh—erm, Miss, uh, Belova—Katya. Yeah, uh, hello.”

Throwing back his head and roaring with laughter, the Minister slapped Harry on the back hard enough to pitch him forward, nearly burying his nose in her hair. “Do not worry, Harry. Our Katya, she have this effect on every man. I should worry if you did  _not_  react in such a way. So! You have met the sweetheart of Wizarding Russia. What do you think? She is captivating, yes?”

Harry struggled to drag his eyes from her intense gaze and secretive smile. “Uh, yes… captivating,” he croaked and fought to keep his expression blank when he saw Summers grinning wickedly at him over the Minister’s shoulder.

The Minister laughed again. “Wait until you hear her sing. She is a phoenix. Come. Let us sit.”

As the Minister took Harry’s arm and led him away, Katya squeezed his hand and melted into the crowd with a look that held promises he couldn’t begin to imagine.

An army of elves scurried about serving the meal that was as lavish as the room itself—exquisitely detailed golden carvings covered the walls and framed red velvet-draped French doors spaced evenly down either side of the room. The characters in the elaborate fresco on the soaring ceiling pointed and chatted among themselves about the proceedings below. From his seat at the raised top table, Harry looked out at the host of round tables encircling a large parquet area in the middle that he supposed would serve for dancing later. Multitudes of fairy lights flitted in and out of the glistening multicolored ice sculptures on each table, illuminating them from within and creating a warm glow over the guests’s smiling faces.

The series of formal speeches was as long and boring as ever, but Harry fixed an attentive look on his face until they were finished, then delivered the brief response that Fleur had prepared months ago and taught him how to adapt for different occasions. When he had returned to his seat and the enthusiastic applause had faded, the crowd took on an expectant air as the room darkened. The fairy lights twinkled back on one by one in the form of a massive halo above the shapely form standing, head bowed, next to a gleaming black grand piano in the center of the floor—neither had been there before the lights went down.

With the first note, Harry could tell that Katya did, indeed, have a phoenix-like ability to weave a spell in song. She apparently hadn’t cast the translation charm, but Harry didn’t need to understand the words to catch their seductive meaning. Her voice was sultry, but with a gentle quality that warmed and soothed the soul even as it stirred the body. She never took her eyes from him and he couldn’t look away.

A full minute passed after the last chord faded before the audience broke into raucous applause that, to Harry, sounded like distant background noise. As the lights came up, she sashayed slowly toward him and held out her hand.

“You will dance with me, Harry?”

The spicy musk of her perfume wafted toward him. Feeling slightly Confunded, he was helpless to stop himself from stumbling off of the raised platform and guiding her to the dance floor.

“I’m really rubbish at dancing,” he finally managed in weak protest as he began leading her jerkily through the waltz. Fleur had not been able to do anything about his two left feet.

“You are not so bad.” Katya’s smile made Harry believe he might be able to get through it without crippling her. “I have danced with worse.”

Transfixed on those hypnotic blue eyes, Harry was only vaguely aware of the other dancers whirling about them. A trickle of sweat trailed down his spine and his lungs felt like balloons that had been tied off to keep the air in. She closed the distance between them a bit. As her scent filled his senses, clouding his brain and building his desire, some small untouched part of his brain made the connection.

He drew them to a stop in front of one of the doors leading to a balcony. “Uh, can we, er, get some air?” he stammered, trying desperately to gather his wits about him.

“But it is very cold outside.” She peered at him from beneath her lashes. “You will have to keep me warm.”

Harry took a step back and forced a smile. “I’m very good with warming charms.”

She gave him a provocative smile and floated gracefully out of the door he held for her. Once outside, he cast a double charm to warm the balcony against the frigid February night and leaned against the marble railing on the pretense of looking at the sights while he struggled to inhale several cleansing breaths. Like the Ministry in London, the Russian Ministry was housed in an abandoned building with concealment and Muggle-repelling charms, but instead of being underground, it towered over the city; the lights below moved like an ethereal kaleidoscope.

Katya posed gracefully on one side of the small space—perhaps a dozen people could have joined them, but they had the darkened balcony all to themselves. Harry eased away from her, trying to clear his head and make sense of her. At first glance, she appeared to be just another female after the Chosen One; but Harry had an uneasy feeling that her motives went deeper. Neither of them spoke for many moments.

She finally moved, pulling her wand from… somewhere he didn’t want to guess at, given the dress she was wearing. Harry tensed and tightened his grip on his own wand, but she only waved hers over her head, sending a shower of sparkles down her body. Immediately, he felt as if he’d surfaced from the bottom of the lake during the second task again; the cloying fragrance was gone.

Katya pointed her wand at the door and murmured a silencing charm before turning to face Harry. “I am sorry to use the Essence of Desire. I could not risk that you slip away from me again.”

Still dragging in cool, cleansing breaths, Harry gasped, “No one else seemed to be affected by it.”

She smiled. “It affects only the one  _I_  desire.”

He took a step back and eyed her warily—Moody would have told him that a beautiful woman was the most dangerous kind. With his head starting to clear, Harry realized what else she had said.

“Why didn’t you want me to slip away again?”

Her expression turned serious. “They expect me... I am to get close to you. To learn your secrets.” She watched him expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

A thousand questions bounced in his head. He tried to sort through them for the most important ones—he might not have much time to ask them.

“Who? Who are they?”

“The Ministry.”

“You work for the Ministry? The singing thing is just a cover?”

“No. I am a singer. They just… employ me… sometimes. When they want… information.”

“So why are you telling me? Wouldn’t it have been better to keep going as you were? It seemed to be working.”

She looked out over the glittering landscape toward the candy-colored domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Her voice grew quiet. “Because I do not wish for them to stop you.”

Harry heart skipped a beat, but he quickly recovered. “Stop me? From what? I’m here on holiday to watch Quidditch.”

The ghost of a smile played about her lips as she continued to study the lights below. “Yes. That is what I will tell them.”

“And what will happen if they don’t believe you?”

She turned that hypnotic gaze back on him and raised one precisely shaped brow. “They will believe.”

Without a doubt, Harry knew they would. “So why do you work for them? What’s in it for you?”

Her face fell and she dropped her eyes to the floor. “I make very good living as a singer. They could change that... they could ruin my career. But my… I have others, who depend on me. So, I work for them. And I make them believe.”

Harry studied her for a moment. He couldn’t deny that she was beautiful—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen (although he’d never say that to Fleur). But he had to wonder if she was, even now, working to make  _him_  believe.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

The blue eyes searched his as if she were looking for the secrets she was supposed to beguile from him. He tried to close off his mind, but if she was a Legilimens, he knew he’d never keep her out. Several moments passed before she seemed to find the answer she was looking for.

“I can trust you.”

Harry nodded, although it wasn’t really a question.

“This Dolohov that you seek—”

“Why do you think that I’m—”

She smiled and placed a cool finger to his lips. “I hear things. People tell me things. I know.”

He frowned and backed away from her touch. “What have you heard?”

“I know someone who can tell you about this man, Dolohov.”

“Who—”

Before Harry could finish his question, Katya pressed against him, her face buried in his shoulder; the door had begun to open. As his brain registered that she was shorter and much curvier than Ginny, he instinctively went into defensive mode, wrapping his left arm protectively around her, keeping his wand at the ready in the folds of his robes with the other. He could feel her tremble as their hearts hammered together, but she remained outwardly calm. He struggled to appear composed as well.

“Ah! Mr. Potter. I am so sorry to interrupt.”

The Commander of the Russian Enforcer Squadron and two of his captains were blocking the doorway. Over their shoulders, Harry could see Summers and Ingalls ready to intervene, if necessary; he shook his head slightly as a signal for them to wait.

“Is there a problem?” Harry carefully kept his voice smooth as Katya turned to speak to the man in their own language. With a slight flick of his wand, Harry cast the charm so he could understand what they were saying.

“—am working on it. He resists more easily—” Katya was saying.

“It does not matter. We have had a new development. Stand away.”

“No! I answer to the Minister—”

Before the Commander could reply, the Russian Minister pushed past him. Summers and Ingalls managed to slip through the door behind him and sidle past the two guards to stand behind Harry.

“What is going on?” the Minister demanded in Russian.

“We want to question Potter—”

Harry’s gut twisted. They knew.

“This is not the time,” The Minister growled. “You must wait—”

“Can we do this in English?” Harry interrupted. “If you’re talking about me, I’d like to be able to understand it.”

The Minister shook his head at the Commander and, still in Russian, growled, “Not now.”

“We must do it now. He will be gone by morning.”

 _Got that right_ , Harry thought.

The Minister gave the Commander a look that said they would have serious discussions later, but nodded curtly for him to proceed.

The Commander turned a cold smile toward Harry and switched to English. “We would ask you to come with us. We have some questions.”

In spite of his racing pulse, Harry maintained his composure. “Questions? Why can’t you ask them here? Surely, you don’t want to create a scene by marching me through the crowd in there, do you?”

A momentary flicker of doubt crossed the Commander’s face before he schooled his features again. “There will be no scene if you come peacefully.”

Harry smirked, grateful that those cards, at least, were in his favor. If they took him, a scene is what they would get. “And why would I do that? This is my party. I’d like to stay and enjoy it a bit more. Just go ahead and ask your questions and let me get back to it.”

The Commander exchanged a worried glance with the Minister before continuing.

“There was a breach here last night. We must test your wand.”

“Hang on.” Harry plastered an incredulous look on his face. “You think  _I_  had something to do with that break-in? That’s ridiculous. The newspaper said you’d caught the intruder.”

“Upon further investigation, we know it was not the person we apprehended.”

“So, what makes you think it was me? What was missing?” Harry held his breath, hoping that, in his haste, he’d banished the file back to its original place.

The Commander pressed his lips together before answering tersely, “We find nothing missing, but we find a powerful magical signature… much more powerful than we have registered before. Only one person could have left such a mark. I wish to verify our suspicions by testing your wand.”

Harry gave the Commander a challenging look, but before he could open his mouth to refuse, Katya spoke softly into the tense silence, drawing seven pairs of surprised eyes to her.

“Oh, but it could not have been Harry.” Peeking up at Harry beneath her lashes, she smiled seductively at the Minister and the Commander. “He was with me… all night long. He is only too noble to say so. He worries for my reputation.”

Fire shot through Harry’s body, targeting his groin. Before the shock could register on his face, Katya pulled his head down to brush her lips lightly on his. Relief and a multitude of other feelings washed over him as she begged him with her eyes to play along; he still didn’t trust her and couldn’t fathom what she was on about, but denying the lie now would endanger them both. He answered her silently and hugged her closer as he looked back at the frowning Commander.

“This is true?” the Commander demanded of him.

Working hard to put a glint of mischief in his eye, Harry raised one eyebrow. “Why would I be anywhere else?”

“Potter, you old wanker,” Summers slapped Harry good-naturedly on the back. “When you told us not to wait up, I thought you were with that cheeky barmaid. I’m impressed!”

Harry smiled his thanks at Summers and turned back to the Commander. “Can I get back to my party, now?”

The Commander threw a suspicious look at Katya, but his expression grew resigned and he bowed slightly to Harry. “My apologies. We will keep looking.” His tone sent a very different message than his words; Harry knew they weren’t finished yet.

The Minister cast a grim look at the Commander, then bowed more deeply to Harry. “Please accept our deepest regrets for this unfortunate mistake. We hope you will not hold this against us and that you will stay for the remainder of the tournament?”

“Of course.” Harry cast a pointed glance at Katya. “Why would I want to leave?”

When the Russians had filed back inside, Summers and Ingalls stopped at the door. Harry asked Katya to wait by the railing while he walked over to speak to them.

“Sorry,” Ingalls murmured. “We didn’t think that they’d make a move like that tonight. What’s going on?”

“No clue,” Harry said. “She says she has information about Dolohov, but I’m not sure I trust her. I’ll explain later.”

“We’ll make sure no one bothers you again,” Ingalls said, then cuffed Summers on the back of the head when he waggled his eyebrows at Harry.

When they had gone in, Harry returned to Katya, intent on asking the questions bouncing around in his head; he stiffened in surprise when she stood on tiptoe to put her arms around his neck.

“They will be watching,” she whispered softly into his ear. “We must give them good show, yes?”

His brain took a moment to catch up when she drew him down for a kiss; before he realized what had happened, his mouth was open to the exploration of her warm lips and dancing tongue. He started to pull away, but she held him in place, winding her fingers into his hair and pressing her hips against his growing response, begging him for more with a sultry purr.

He’d gone too long without a heart beating next to his, the warmth of another body wrapped around him, and he was drawn to her like a frozen man to a crackling hearth. Four months of pent up need came crashing in on him; his defenses gave way.

His body took over and all thought ceased. 


	25. Turning Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny begins to face her demons.

Something was different.

Ginny stared into her canopy, fighting her way to consciousness through the thick cloud of gloom just as she did every morning. But today something was different—she just couldn’t put her finger on what.

“Ginny, wake up. You’re going to be late.” Hermione’s voice came through the bed curtains before she pulled them back to let the grey morning in. She was dressed, but her hair still hung in damp ringlets, giving her face a soft look usually hidden by bushy curls. Ginny studied her for a moment through barely-cracked lids, idly wondering why she didn’t charm it to stay that way all day.

“Come on!” Hermione’s tone became more insistent. “Wake up!”

“I’m awake,” Ginny grumbled without moving.

“Well, get up, then. You have to eat before class.”

“Yes, Mum.” Ginny stifled a yawn as she dragged herself to the edge of the bed, then stopped in mid-stretch when she saw Hermione watching her with narrowed eyes. “What? Are my freckles glowing? Do I have something growing out of my head?”

Hermione jerked her eyes back toward the books she was stuffing into her bag. “Oh… No… nothing…” She stole another glance at Ginny. “Just don’t forget to take your potion.”

Ginny grimaced as she slid off the bed and started rummaging through her trunk for her clothes. “I don’t know why I have to keep taking it. I can’t tell that it’s doing a thing.”

“Oh, stop whinging and take it.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and snatched the phial from the night table on her way to the showers. Much as she loved Hermione, sometimes the girl was dead annoying—she’d become obsessed with the bloody potion and had taken to watching Ginny like Crookshanks at a gnome hole, waiting for any sign of change. After the first three days, when Ginny had become jittery and unable to sleep at all, they’d cut the dose in half. Now, four days later, the golden liquid seemed no more potent than water. The way Hermione analyzed her every twitch and vocal inflection, Ginny felt like a slow motion magical experiment gone awry. She’d had just about enough.

Grateful that running late meant she had the shower room mostly to herself, Ginny dawdled through her morning routine, allowing her mind to wander at will. As always, her thoughts turned first to Harry. She usually kept him pushed to the dark recesses of her mind, but this morning she turned him loose as she stood under the warm spray, toying with her necklace, wondering where he was and if he was safe… imagining him with her now, pressing her against the wall as his hands…

The chill of cold tile against her bum jerked her back to reality and she sagged in defeat, an icy sense of loss sending shivers through her in spite of the thick steam from the shower. With a great effort, she pushed herself up through the wave of despair and back under the stinging spray. She’d never keep what was left of her sanity if she let her thoughts continue in that direction, so she forced them to the day ahead.

Under Hermione’s relentless prodding, she’d managed to finish her Charms essay and, with Lavender’s help, had actually got through all of the reading for Muggle Studies. For a change, she felt reasonably prepared for class and the ever-present cloud over her head seemed a bit more grey than black today. Maybe that accounted for the niggling sense that something was different. But no… that just didn’t seem right. She poked at the feeling a moment before letting it go with a sigh. Her brain just wasn’t up to working out the puzzle.

Finally dressed, Ginny picked up the phial and watched the golden ribbons swirl through it for a moment. Maybe she should just dump it down the drain. Hermione would never know. It wasn’t working anyway.

Raising her eyes to the mirror, Ginny studied the pale reflection looking back at her. Under normal conditions she knew she wasn’t _un_ attractive (too many freckles and ginger hair ruled out beautiful), but she hardly recognized herself these days. Even though she looked much better than she had during the holidays, she was still much too thin and the dark bruises under her eyes told of far too many nights lost to disturbing dreams.

 _Dreams_.

That was it! Ginny stared into her own surprise-widened eyes. That’s what was different—she couldn’t remember her dreams.

For more than a year, even with all of the sleeping potions that had been forced on her, she could remember waking only a few times without at least the shadows of her nighttime demons haunting her—and more often than not to her own screams of terror. But this morning, she couldn’t remember dreaming at all. Her memory was a complete blank.

She blinked, her mind and heart racing as she searched for the missing time in her head. She’d tossed and turned for several hours as usual, but after that she couldn’t remember anything.

Déjà vu washed over her—she was eleven again, trying to sort out how she’d got to be where she was standing and why her robes were covered in blood. Terror threatened to freeze her brain. Could she have been… No! That was impossible. Riddle was gone. Harry had seen to that—twice. But the hours were blank, as if she’d just skipped over them. What else could it be? Who else could have…?

Her eyes fell to the dancing spirals in the phial nestled loosely in her fingers. Her hand began to tremble as the answer came to her: Snape. He’d done it. He’d somehow managed to get to her through Hermione’s damned potion.

The slender bottle slipped from her grasp and shattered on the stone floor. Mindless of the shard that nicked her knee, laddering her dark tights and drawing a bead of blood that blossomed black, she backed shakily to the wall behind her and stared in horror at the puddle swirling around the stopper and broken glass.

How much time had she lost? It had to have been hours and hours. How many? What horrible things could she have done in that amount of time? Her lungs seized and indigo spots exploded before her eyes as she fought for breath.

“Ginny, where are you? We’re going to be la—” Hermione’s eyes went wide as she came around the corner. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t remember.” Ginny’s voice started as a whisper and quickly escalated into panic. “I can’t remember anything. Since last night. Where I’ve been…what I’ve been doing…what if I did something horrible? Hermione, I can’t remember!” She wrapped her arms around herself as violent tremors took over.

Hermione grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Ginny! Look at me! Look at me!” Ginny raised horror-filled eyes and Hermione continued. “Now, breathe. _Breathe!_ ” When Ginny had drawn in a huge gasp and managed to inhale twice more, Hermione relaxed her hold. “You’ve been in bed. You’ve been sleeping. That’s all.”

“But how can you be sure? What if... I can’t—”

“Monitoring charm, remember? You slept like a baby for four hours straight. The longest since I set the charm.”

“I slept?” Ginny frowned as the words sank in. She’d slept. The only times in the past year she could remember sleeping without nightmares was when she’d slept with Harry. All of the tension drained from her body and she looked at Hermione in wonder, realizing suddenly that she did feel more rested than she could remember in a long time. “I slept.”

Hermione was frowning and chewing on her lip. Sudden understanding lit her eyes. “You thought you’d been possessed again.”

Ginny closed her eyes and nodded.

“But, how? Who—?”

Ginny’s eyes flicked automatically to the spilled potion.

Hermione sighed. “Ginny, I wouldn’t do that to you. I’d never do anything that I thought would put you in danger. _I_ chose all of the ingredients and spells. Snape only advised on the process. Besides, he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—do that. Neville was right. Snape did all he could for many years to protect all of us, even if he _was_ obnoxious about it. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. I’ll take care of you.”

 _I’ll take care of you._ The words slammed into Ginny’s head, jolting her back to reality. Why did everyone think they had to take care of her? She could bloody well take care of herself. Hadn’t she done so last year? Hell, she’d taken care of half of the school.

 _But you haven’t been taking care of yourself lately, have you?_ Why did that voice in her head sound so much like Harry’s? Ginny raised her eyes to find Hermione studying her with a worried look.

“Are you all right now?”

Ginny nodded. Biting back the harsh words that had formed on her tongue, she raked a hand through her damp hair. “Pathetic, isn’t it? I can’t tell the difference between being possessed and getting a good night’s sleep?”

Hermione released a relieved breath and gave Ginny a little smile. “Given your history, I’d say it was a fairly logical conclusion.”

Ginny couldn’t stop the wry grin that took over her face as she watched Hermione draw her wand and vanish the spilled potion and glass, then turn to take care of Ginny’s knee. Ginny held out a hand to stop her.

“I can do it.” Those simple words suddenly seemed to carry a multitude of meaning... and they felt so good on her tongue, Ginny repeated them. “I can do it.”

Hermione seemed to understand and lowered her wand with a brilliant smile. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

***

All day long, Ginny was preoccupied, still amazed at that brief glimpse of normality. Was it real? Did it mean that she was really getting better? Or would the dreams come back worse than ever for having had a night off? Nothing else seemed much different. She was still tired—although maybe a bit less than usual. And she still couldn’t concentrate—well, maybe a bit better—or maybe not. The things that were the same and the things that were possibly different were starting to all run together. Were those hunger pangs? Or just her stomach in knots, fighting against hope?

Of course, Ginny’s distraction drew more of Hermione’s attention than ever.

“How are you feeling?” If Hermione had asked that once, she’d asked it a dozen times throughout the morning.

“I’m fine, Hermione.” Ginny struggled to keep the irritation from her tone—and failed miserably—as she poured a glass of pumpkin juice at lunch. “You’ll be the first to know if anything else changes.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and seemed to accept the promise, but Ginny could feel that assessing stare every time they were together. By the end of the day, she was torn between relief and irritation when Dennis Creevey met her in the common room after her last class.

“Ready?” He was dressed in his Quidditch gear.

Ginny scowled at him. “So you’re the designated nanny today?”

He flushed crimson and looked at his feet. “Dean wanted to get to the changing rooms early to put the plays on the board. I offered to wait for you.”

Ginny took pity on him and softened her expression. She hadn’t really had a chance to talk with Dennis since the holidays. “Let me put my things away and get my gloves and scarf.”

He smiled his relief and she dragged herself up the stairs to the dormitory. After a full day of classes, the last thing she wanted to do was tromp down to the Quidditch pitch. But Dean had decided that if she couldn’t fly with them yet, she could at least sit in on the strategy sessions and watch practice so she’d be ready when McGonagall finally said she could play. Ginny was amazed at his unwavering certainty that she would be allowed back on the team—she wasn’t at all convinced. And she was becoming less certain by the day that she even _wanted_ to play. Of course, her growing hesitation about playing had a whole lot to do with her growing fear about getting back on a broom—she was terrified that she would get into the air and repeat the insanity of last autumn. But she’d given her word and the whole team was counting on her. So she went along, because it was easier than fighting them. She’d just have to work out the best way to face her fears when the time came.

As they emerged from the portrait hole, Ginny asked Dennis about the exhibits of Colin’s photographs over the holidays. Although she was interested in hearing about the shows at the galleries in Diagon Alley and Paris, his enthusiastic recounting also meant she didn’t have to contribute much to the conversation. She oohed and aahed and hmmed understanding in the right places, and he seemed satisfied with her responses. But her scant attention to Dennis ended abruptly when she came face-to-face with Lisa Turpin on the fifth floor landing.

Lisa stopped, eyeing Ginny cautiously, as if seeking some sign about whether or not to greet them; she quickly dipped her head and moved to skirt past.

“Wait! Lisa…” Ginny spoke without knowing what to say, just that she knew she needed to somehow make amends for their last meeting. She turned to Dennis. “You go on. I need to talk to Lisa for a moment.”

At Dennis’s anxious hesitation, Lisa turned her eyes from Ginny to him. “It’s okay. I’ll walk down with her.”

Ginny squashed her irritation that they both thought she needed a keeper—she wanted to apologize, not start another row—and she gave a tight smile of encouragement to Dennis. With a skeptical look, he reluctantly continued downstairs, throwing several glances at them over his shoulder as he went.

In unspoken agreement, Ginny and Lisa waited until he was out of sight before beginning their own descent. They slowly walked down two flights before Ginny spoke.

“I’m sorry. For what I said that day in Myrtle’s bathroom. I know that you were…”

Ginny ran out of words, but Lisa didn’t seem to mind. She shrugged and gave Ginny a gentle smile. “No worries. I’ve been there. I know.”

Even with so few words, Ginny knew that Lisa really did know—just like George knew. And, as they walked along in silence, she thought that she and Lisa might become friends for having that shared knowledge.

When they reached the entrance hall, Ginny stopped just inside the front doors. “You don’t have to come all the way to the pitch. I promise I’ll go straight down.”

Lisa’s cheeks flushed pink and she dropped her eyes. “I don’t mind. Really. I... I could use some fresh air.”

At the way Lisa was stammering and fidgeting, Ginny wondered if something more might be behind the offer and decided not to argue. “All right, then, come on. But, I’ll warn you, watching practice is really boring and Dean might not let you stay since you’re in another house.”

“Dean knows I’m clueless about Quidditch. He couldn’t believe it when I told him I’ve never even been to a match.”

“I’ll bet!” Ginny gaped at her. “You haven’t even come to watch your House team play?”

Lisa shrugged. “The library’s really quiet on Quidditch Saturdays.”

“Huh!” Ginny said glumly. “You might have the right idea.”

The team was already in the air by the time they took their seats at the top of the stands. Dean flew over and hovered in front of them.

“Hi, Lisa,” he said with a bright smile before he fixed Ginny with a stern stare. “You’re late. You missed the strategy session. You’ll need to stay after so I can go over it with you. Pay careful attention to the faking patterns.” And he zoomed back to the circle of brooms floating near the center of the pitch.

Ginny sighed wistfully and propped her elbows on her knees to support her chin in her hands. “He’s sooo romantic.”

The words were meant to be sarcastic, but the fleeting look of dismay that crossed Lisa’s face told Ginny they hadn’t been taken that way. Ginny watched Lisa watching the team (or, more specifically, watching Dean) and decided her suspicions might be right. Maybe she could do more than apologize to make things up to Lisa.

“I’m teasing, you know. About the romantic part. We’re just friends.”

Lisa pressed her lips together before schooling her face into a more neutral expression. “I don’t think he knows that. He’s mad about you.”

Ginny sighed again and let her eyes track Dean as he performed a complicated maneuver. “No, he isn’t. He’s just fallen into a bad habit that he refuses to break. I think he’s really mad about someone else and just hasn’t realized it yet.”

Ginny looked back at Lisa just in time to catch the flash of hope in her eyes before she opened them wide and yelped in fear when a Bludger nearly unseated Dean. She covered her face and gave an exaggerated shudder. “How do you play this game? It’s terrifying!”

Ginny chuckled. “It’s not as bad up there as it looks from down here.” She waited a couple of beats until Lisa was watching the players, or rather Dean, again. “You like him, don’t you? As more than a friend?”

Lisa flushed crimson and looked at her white-knuckled fingers knotted in her lap. “I’d better get back to the castle.”

Before she could stand, Ginny laid a hand on her arm. “I really think he likes you, too.”

Lisa’s face crumpled briefly in pain before she managed to regain her calm expression. She didn’t look at Ginny. “No. I’m sure he doesn’t. All he ever talks about is you.” She looked up, her face a picture of composure but her voice tight. “It’s okay, though. I won’t get in your way, now that you’re well rid of—” She stopped and slapped a hand over her mouth, stricken with shock by what she’d almost said.

Lisa obviously hadn’t worked through all of her issues with Harry. Ginny had to look away and swallow hard. When she finally managed to speak, her voice came out a bit strangled. “No, I... I really do like Dean _only_ as a friend. I know I went out with him a couple of years ago, but it was a disaster in the end. And now, I could never...” Her throat closed around the words and she took a deep breath to steady herself. “You make Dean smile. And he watches you… at meals and such.”

Lisa’s eyes went wide and the hope flared unchecked.

“Ginny!” Dean’s voice rang out overhead, drawing their eyes to him. “Pay attention to this next move. It’s important.”

Ginny and Lisa watched as he and Demelza executed a complicated series of rapid-fire passes while circling the goal before shooting it past the Keeper, Euan Abercrombie.

“That was amazing,” Lisa breathed, her eyes alight with obvious adoration.

Ginny couldn’t help the grin that spread over her face. “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?”

The blush on Lisa’s cheeks blossomed again as she smiled shyly, but her expression quickly turned sad and she heaved a huge sigh. “But he still thinks he’s in love with you.”

Ginny turned her eyes back to the cluster of broomsticks over the pitch. “Well, we’ll just have to convince him that he’s wrong, won’t we?”

***

By the time Dean had called an end to practice, the moon was high in the sky, playing peek-a-boo behind ink-blot clouds. Lisa had long since gone in and the team was grumbling about missing supper as they passed Ginny on the way out of the changing rooms. Dean kept her for nearly an hour, going over the play diagrams. She’d tried several times to slip in comments about Lisa, but he’d cut her off at every attempt, keeping the discussion to Quidditch—until they stopped at the portrait hole when he’d asked how she was feeling. Hermione must have told him about the potion.

“I’m fine,” she said, biting off the words sharply as she turned and barked at the Pink Lady, “Fiddlesticks!”

“Ginny, wait—” Dean’s tone turned a bit panicked as he scrambled to follow her into the common room. He managed to grab her arm before she could make it to the dormitory stairs and his eyes pleaded with her before they dropped to the floor. “Wait, I need to—”

“Dean, I’m tired.” Bone weary was more like it. She really couldn’t handle another of his declarations of affection. “I can’t deal with this right now.” She shook her arm free of his grasp and hurried up to the first turn in the staircase; the despair in his voice was evident as it followed her.

Ginny trudged the rest of the way to her room, grateful that the day was finally over. Too much had happened and she was exhausted. But even though all she could think about was falling into bed, she was so worried that she might not sleep again that she felt certain the very process of worrying about it would make it true. When was she ever going to be able to simply live again without having to think about every breath?

The first thing she noticed when she stumbled into the room was the sandwich tray sitting on her bed. Her stomach grumbled in gratitude and she drew up short. When had she last felt hungry? That was certainly a good sign, wasn’t it? She had opened her mouth to tell Hermione, but froze in shock when her eyes fell on the other thing sitting next to the tray.

Her broom. Her own broom. The one she’d left in the Room of Requirement months ago… when she and Harry… the memories swirled through her brain, making her dizzy and disoriented like Professor Trelawney’s incense.

“Ginny? Are you okay?” Hermione’s voice broke into her thoughts as if it were coming from a long distance.

Ginny couldn’t take her eyes from the broom. “Where did that come from?” Even though she knew the answer, she had an irrational need to hear Hermione say it, to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Hermione got cautiously from her bed, watching Ginny warily. “Dean asked Luna to get it. He thought you might want it…” She trailed off as Ginny took a step back and wrapped her arms around herself.

Dean. That’s probably what he’d been trying to tell her downstairs. At least he hadn’t gone into the Room himself. That would have been too much of a betrayal.

“He— _we_ thought you’d rather use your own broom. For Quidditch.” Hermione had taken a couple of steps closer, her arms tensed as if she thought Ginny might collapse and need to be caught. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

Ginny nodded, never taking her eyes from the broom. “Yes. It’s fine.”

Of course she’d want her own broom. Charlie had given it to her for her birthday before her sixth year—in case she needed to escape Death Eaters, he’d told her. It was better than any other broom at school. Not nearly as good as Harry’s, but a low-end professional-standard broom, nonetheless. If she were really going to play Quidditch again, she’d need it. She just didn’t need to think about where it had been these past months or what had happened in that room when she’d left it there.

Or what had happened the last time she’d ridden a broom.

Or what might happen the next time she rode one.

But none of that was Dean’s fault. Or Hermione’s.

With trembling hands, she carefully propped it against the wall next to her night table. “It’s fine,” she said absently to Hermione, then hurriedly put on her pyjamas and crawled under the covers, the forgotten sandwich still sitting on the foot of the bed. Hermione didn’t comment as Ginny used her wand to draw the bed curtains, leaving a small gap so she could see the broom in the moonlight long after the even breathing of her dorm mates was the only sound in the room.

She didn’t sleep enough to dream.

***

The broom stood by Ginny’s night table, seemingly unnoticed, for the next two days. _Seemingly_ unnoticed. As far as Ginny was concerned, it might as well have been dancing around the room and spouting sparks like one of the twins’s fireworks—but she gave no outward indication that she was aware of it.

Dean had eyed Ginny anxiously at breakfast the morning after she found it on her bed. He’d cast a questioning glance at Hermione; when she gave a subtle shake of her head, he hadn’t mentioned it. Relieved, Ginny hadn’t either.

But she thought about it. Constantly. It became the symbol of all of her fears.

Long into the night on Saturday, she sat in the middle of her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, peering through the gap in the curtains at the handle glistening in the silvery moonlight. Could she fly again without losing control? Did she have it in her to find out? She was so bloody tired of being afraid… of being a failure… of letting her demons win. And she was tired of living with who she’d become in the past year. She didn’t like this version of herself—frightened and weak and withdrawn. But she could hardly remember the girl who’d stolen brooms from her mother’s shed and swords from Death Eaters. She wanted to be that girl again. She desperately wanted to feel confident and happy and whole once more.

Something shifted inside of her. This was never going to go away until she could stand up to it, until she could face her demons head on. And there was only one way to do that. Once she knew what she had to do, the weight that had been dragging her down eased a bit, and she dropped into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

Ginny woke with the sun and took more care than usual with her appearance. She carefully wove her hair into a thick French braid that started high on her head and trailed down the center of her back. Her cheeks already held a bit more color than usual and the bruises under her eyes were more lavender than plum, but she used a bit of concealer potion to tone them down even further. The face in the mirror reflected a serenity she hadn’t seen there in months.

Back in the room, Hermione gave her a curious look, but didn’t comment other than to ask if she’d remembered to take her potion. Even Ron, when he arrived for breakfast, seemed to notice that something was different, but with Hermione’s glare, he went back to shoveling eggs into his mouth, only the furtive glances he sent Ginny’s way and the red tips of his ears giving away that he was holding anything back.

Even though her insides were churning with anticipation, Ginny managed to hold on to her placid exterior and force down a reasonable breakfast. She knew everyone was attributing the changes to the potion and she needed to keep it that way, at least until she’d done what she needed to do.

When they’d finished eating and headed back upstairs, she stopped and put a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Would you help me with my Herbology project when you’re finished?” At his nod of agreement, she smiled. “Thanks. I’ll wait for you in the common room.”

She hurried to catch up to Ron and Hermione. When they reached the seventh floor, she stopped them as they turned toward Gryffindor Tower.

“Wait! Don’t you want to go the other way?” Ginny kept her face carefully blank. “Neville’s going to help me with my Herbology project, so there’s no reason why…” She trailed off suggestively and cocked her head in the direction of the Room of Requirement.

Ron’s eyes lit up.

Hermione frowned. “I don’t know…”

“Hermione, it’ll be fine.” Ginny sent a meaningful look at Ron.

He took the hint and put an arm around Hermione’s waist. “You heard her. She’ll be fine,” he said. “Neville will take good care of her.” He gave Hermione a gentle nudge.

Hermione gave them both a skeptical look, then blushed at something Ron whispered in her ear. “Oh. Well… I… um…”

“Have fun,” Ginny said as she gave them both a gentle push and headed in the opposite direction, walking backwards to be sure they were going.

Hermione hesitated only a moment more, until Ron whispered something else that turned her pink face to bright scarlet. He winked at Ginny and hurried Hermione down the hall.

Ginny watched them wistfully for a moment, then, with an impatient shake of her head, banished the memories that were threatening to pull her back into the gloom. She had a job to do and she couldn’t let herself be distracted or she’d never get it done.

By the time Neville came through the portrait hole, Ginny was sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, working hard to give the appearance of deep concentration in her Herbology book so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Dean and Seamus, still in their pyjamas, were playing Exploding Snap at the table across the room. When Neville sat down next to her, she leaned close to him and kept her voice low.

“Will you come outside with me?”

He looked surprised, but didn’t question her. “Sure. Let me get my cloak.”

Dean looked up when Ginny began wrapping herself in her warmest cloak, scarf, and gloves.

“Going out?” Dean laid down his cards and stood. “Want me to come?”

She gave him her best smile to hide her nerves and the fact that her stomach was threatening to eject her breakfast. “No, no. It’s okay. Neville’s coming. He’s helping me with my Herbology project. But thanks anyway.”

Dean reluctantly went back to his game, sending an obviously jealous scowl in Neville’s direction when he came down a moment later.

Unable to contain her anxiety any longer, Ginny nearly pushed Neville out of the portrait hole and down the stairs. He gave her several questioning looks, but as they’d done during the Death Eater reign, he followed her lead and didn’t speak while he trailed her quietly out of the courtyard door and into a grove of trees.

When they were safely hidden from anyone who might be watching, she spun to face him. “I lied. I do need your help with a project, but it has nothing to do with Herbology.”

Without a flicker of surprise, he met her gaze evenly. “What do you need?”

Pulling her hand from her pocket, she opened her fist to reveal her shrunken broom and tapped it with her wand to enlarge it, then looked into his startled eyes. “I need to fly.”

For a moment he just stared at the broom, then shook his head in disbelief. “Ginny, I’d do anything in the world for you, but you know I’m no flier. You should ask Dean—”

“No! I need _you_ ,” she interrupted, desperate to make him understand. “Dean and Hermione—everyone, really—they treat me like I’m six years old. And, well, maybe they’ve got good reason… But you... you remember who I was last year. You’re the only one who treats me like the person I used to be. I can’t do this if you won’t come with me.”

He looked doubtful. “I don’t know…”

“It’ll be okay. I promise I won’t go too high or too fast. I just need someone there in case—” She stopped and closed her eyes, reinforcing the stranglehold on her fears.

She opened her eyes to find his face grim. “In case what?” he asked.

Ginny suddenly found her boots incredibly interesting. “Nothing,” she mumbled, then forced herself to look at him and speak with more confidence. “It’s just that, well, I haven’t flown since…” Her voice faltered, but she cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders and continued, “I have to do this. If I don’t face my fears, I’ll never get myself back again. I have to do this and I need you there to be sure... to... to give me moral support.”

She could tell he had cottoned on and was beginning to have second thoughts. “Ginny, I’m not good enough on a broom to help if something happens. Please, let’s go get Dean or—”

“You can do this, Neville. _We_ can do this.” Her voice took on a pleading tone. “This is no different than stealing Gryffindor’s sword from Snape’s office—it’s easier, really. I just need you to be there for me… please. Madam Hooch will never let me do this alone and there’s no one else I can trust.”

“I think I’d rather face Snape,” Neville muttered. The admission carried a lot of weight since everyone knew Snape was Neville’s Boggart, although Ginny thought he might have outgrown that one after all they’d been through. Watching the rapid play of emotion across his face—gratitude, fear, concern—she held her breath until he finally reached his decision with a sigh of defeat and a wry shake of his head. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?”

She let out a relieved breath and threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said as she pulled back to give him a smile. “I’m pants at this, you know.”

“You’re wonderful! You’re one of the bravest men I know.”

He snorted. “Hold that thought. I’ll be changing your mind shortly.”

Her grin faded quickly as she thought about the next hurdle. She drew a shaky breath. “Now we just have to convince Madam Hooch to let me go.”

Neville seemed to understand. “Leave her to me.”

***

“I’m doing an internship this summer that requires proficiency on a broom, and, well, we all know I’m far from proficient,” Neville said with a perfectly straight face. Ginny marveled at how confident he’d grown over the years. “Ginny’s the only person I can ask to help me,” he continued. “She’s the only one who won’t laugh at me.”

Ginny stayed appropriately meek and silent as Madam Hooch eyed them both suspiciously. After several long moments, she grunted reluctant approval. “All right, Longbottom. But I’m putting you in charge. You come and get me _immediately_ if anything happens. Immediately! Understand?”

Neville nodded. Ginny looked at the floor and bit the inside of her cheek to be sure the hot flush that washed up her face was the only reaction to the obvious implication that if anything happened, it wouldn’t happen to _Neville_ who was the less experienced flier, and that, if the Head Boy weren’t vouching for her, Ginny couldn’t even be _thinking_ about asking for this privilege. Madam Hooch gave Neville another hard look that said she expected only the worst from this escapade, but she initialed the sign-out form and they hurried to the shed to retrieve a broom for Neville before the protection charms fell back into place and locked them out.

“You were brilliant,” Ginny said as they stepped onto the pitch. “You even had _me_ believing that internship story.”

Neville’s cheeks turned pink. “Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. I _have_ applied for an internship, but I haven’t heard if I’ve got it yet. But I’ve also been approached for something else that would require good broom skills.” He gave her a sidelong glance, as if trying to decide whether to say more.

“Well, what is it?” she prompted. “If someone approached you, they must think you’re ready for it.”

He shuffled his feet and ducked his head, his voice muffled by his scarf as he muttered into it.

Ginny grabbed his arm in surprise. “Did you say the Auror Academy?”

Face scarlet, he looked uncertainly at her and nodded.

A thrill of pride ran through Ginny and she threw her arms around him. “Neville, that’s wonderful!” His look of gratitude sliced through her heart—he had expected her to laugh. “Neville, you stood up to Voldemort! Why wouldn’t you make a good Auror? You’re going to do it, aren’t you? Oh, I’ll bet your grandmother is so proud. I know your parents would be, too.”

He visibly relaxed and gave her a wry smile. “Well, I haven’t told Gran yet. I just got the letter on Friday. And I’ll still have to do reasonably well on my NEWTs. I guess I don’t really believe it, yet. But the letter had a Ministry seal on it, so I think it’s real.”

“You should write back today and tell them yes,” Ginny said. “Hey, George told me that Ron’s thinking about it, too. Maybe you could go through training together.”

“Yeah?” Neville’s eyes lit up. “That would be brilliant!”

“You should talk to him before he leaves tonight.” When Neville looked as if he was ready to head back toward the castle, she added quickly, “I think he’ll be busy for a while yet. We’ve got plenty of time to turn you into an expert flier.”

Neville snorted. “Good luck with that.”

***

Helping Neville face his flying fears turned out to be exactly what Ginny needed to take her mind off of her own. One look at his green-tinged face and terror-filled eyes and all of her concentration had turned to putting him at his ease. By the time they walked into the Great Hall for supper, they were pink-cheeked and laughing, euphoric with their progress. He had managed to successfully navigate a simple obstacle course Ginny had conjured behind the Quidditch stands, and she had been able to fly without losing control, albeit much closer to the ground and more slowly than she would need to during a match—but she’d done it and she was giddy with relief. She’d faced one of her demons and won. Surely she could now take on the others.

Ginny and Neville had agreed to keep their “project” a secret until he had made more progress. When they smiled knowingly at one another before separating to sit on either side of Ron and Hermione, Ginny could feel the avid attention of everyone around them... Dean’s anger radiated across the table in waves. As she settled onto the bench, Ginny just had time to see Neville lean over and whisper to Ron before her view of them was cut off by tousled brown curls and a close-up of Hermione’s curious expression.

“Ginny, what’s going on with you and Neville?”

With a scowl, Ginny reached for the platter of roast chicken. “Nothing. I told you, Neville’s helping me with a project.”

“I was distracted when you said that earlier, but I’ve thought about it and I know you don’t have a Herbology project due.”

With an exasperated glance at Dean hanging on their every word, Ginny leaned close to Hermione’s ear so she wouldn’t be overheard. “It’s not really my project. It’s Neville’s, okay? And he asked me not to say anything. But I’ll tell you about it as soon as I can, I promise. You’ll just have to trust me.” It wasn’t much of a lie. The project really had turned out to be more Neville’s in the end.

Hermione nodded, then they both jumped in surprise as Dean slammed his cup down on the table and stormed from the room. Ginny watched him go in astonishment. When she’d asked Neville for help, she’d been too worried about flying again to think about anything else—Dean’s reaction had been the furthest thing from her mind. But if he was going to act like a stupid prat about it, she didn’t see any reason not to take advantage of the perfect set-up.

From the Ravenclaw table, Lisa had watched Dean leave and was now sending Ginny a questioning look. _Go!_ Ginny mouthed at her and smiled with satisfaction as the blonde curls bounced out of the door. Maybe something was going to go right for a change.

***

The world didn’t immediately tilt back upright on its axis as she’d expected. Ginny knew she’d reached a turning point when her nightmares had all but disappeared. And being able to get back on a broom without losing her mind had lifted her spirits to giddy heights for a few brief hours. But the persistent feelings of sadness and longing hovered on the fringes of her mind—sometimes intense, sometimes less noticeable, but always there. She had begun to realize that she might have to live with this dark, hollow feeling forever. But she could function in spite of it if she tried hard enough, and perhaps, if she could find the strength to keep fighting it, she might be able to have at least a semblance of a normal life.

Of course, the renewed murmurs and speculations of her schoolmates didn’t help. The gawking looks and not-quite whispers had dwindled in the weeks after Harry left, but they had started again with gusto when she and Neville had come in from their first day of flying and Dean had made his dramatic exit from the Great Hall. The fact that she and Neville sneaked off at every opportunity to practice also seemed to be fueling the new round of castle rumors. Although not as famous as Harry, Neville’s role in Voldemort’s defeat had brought him his own measure of recognition and respect. And Ginny’s apparent sudden interest in him was noteworthy enough to warrant a brief article in the _Prophet_ that, naturally, recounted how she’d also run the Saviour of the Wizarding World out of Britain.

She would still prefer to face an army of Dementors than the wizarding press corps, but Ginny found that the hallway murmurs didn’t bother her as much as they used to. She could fairly easily ignore her classmates now and she counted it as a victory over one more demon, even if just a small one.

After a couple of days, Ginny had finally confided to Hermione what she and Neville were doing. But she had resisted telling Dean simply because it was none of his business and because he was acting like such an arrogant prat. She didn’t understand Dean’s hostility over Neville. Oh, she knew it was because she was spending so much time with Neville, but that shouldn’t have made any difference—Neville was her friend, just as Dean was. Why was her friendship with boys such a hard concept for everyone? She’d been raised with six brothers, for Merlin’s sake. Relating to boys had always been easier for her. But even if her relationship with Neville _were_ more than friendship, Dean had no right to be jealous. She’d been honest about her feelings for him from the beginning—but he didn’t seem to have listened.

The Saturday before McGonagall’s Quidditch decision dawned cold and gray. Ginny still had no confidence that she’d be allowed to play, but right now, she had other things on her mind. Lost in nervous anticipation of her practice session with Neville (she planned to take him higher and faster than ever today—a scary proposition for both of them), she descended the dormitory stairs paying little attention to anything around her. She jolted to a startled stop as she reached the bottom and turned toward the portrait hole.

Looking angry and determined, Dean was blocking her path.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 


	26. Learning to Play the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kat-and-mouse game continues as Harry struggles for control.

“They will be watching,” Katya whispered softly into Harry’s ear. “We must give them good show, yes?”

His brain took a moment to catch up when she drew him down for a kiss; before he realized what had happened, his mouth was open to the exploration of her warm lips and dancing tongue. He started to pull away, but she held him in place, winding her fingers into his hair and pressing her hips against his growing response, begging him for more with a sultry purr.

He’d gone too long without a heart beating next to his, the warmth of another body wrapped around him, and he was drawn to her like a frozen man to a crackling hearth. Four months of pent up need came crashing in on him and his defenses gave way.

His body took over and all thought ceased.

Katya trailed a hand down his chest and under his robes to stroke his back through his shirt. Of their own accord, his hands began moving, too—the one still holding his wand drifted down to the swell of her bum and pulled her more firmly into his erection; the other traced her voluptuous curves to cup her breast and thumb a taut nipple. As far as he could tell, nothing lay between his hands and her skin but a single silky layer of pale blue velvet. She moaned into him and he clutched her more tightly, every nerve ending focused on finding release for the throbbing pressure between them.

Through the haze of desire, his mind called up a vision of rose-spattered skin and blazing brown eyes, and suddenly nothing felt right: the curves against his body didn’t fit properly—the breast was too heavy, the hips too full—and the scent hovering in the air was too pungent, not the light, sweet tang he craved. The realization of what he was doing hit him like a Bludger.

Katya stumbled forward when he released her without warning. With a hand at her elbow to steady her, he drew a ragged breath and took another step backward as she moved to embrace him again. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t know this girl—this woman—and he sure as hell didn’t trust her yet. Yes, he’d accepted the role of besotted lover and he’d have to publicly play along until he could work out what she wanted and find out what she knew. But did that really mean he had to keep up the act in private?

“Something is wrong?” She looked honestly puzzled and perhaps a bit hurt.

Willing his body into control, Harry squelched the twinge of guilt that rose in his chest and forced a smile. “I think we should probably go back in… maybe dance or something… before things get—er—out of hand.”

She lowered her lashes coyly. “But I do not mind if things… get out of hand. I am thinking that you had them well _in_ hand.”

As his face flamed, she reached for him again, but he fended off the motion by lacing his fingers through hers. “I mean that maybe we should move the show inside… for a bigger audience.”

At her brilliant smile, he realized what he’d said and wished that he could go ahead and burst into flame to end the misery. She showed no mercy at his distress. “Yes, would be… entertaining, to act so in there.”

“No! No, I meant that we should dance… let people see us together… but not—not like that…” Harry cursed his red face and stammering tongue. _Smooth, Potter, real smooth._ Merlin, he wasn’t cut out for this sort of game.

She tiptoed and brushed her lips lightly against his. “Is okay, Harry. Perhaps later we continue, hmmm?”

Harry looked away and led her to the door. He had no intention of finishing what they’d started, but he wasn’t sure if telling her so would ruin his chances of finding out what she knew about Dolohov—if she even knew anything. Maybe sex was all she wanted and she was only dangling the potential for information as bait. Or maybe _she_ was the bait that someone else was using. Whatever or whoever she was, _all_ he wanted from her was answers.

***

Harry slumped back onto the sofa and closed his eyes, relieved that the stressful evening was finally over. He’d take a good wizard battle over this con game any day of the week. After the balcony scene, they’d danced for about an hour as Harry had tried in vain to get some answers. She had refused to talk about Dolohov for fear of being overheard—or so she’d said.

His relief had been palpable when the first guests began leaving, signaling that he could make his escape without creating an international crisis. Of course, his role-playing with Katya on the dance floor had also given them a good excuse to leave early—at least the knowing smiles from the other guests had seemed to indicate that their act was believable. Harry had been amazed that he’d pulled it off.

With everyone openly watching them, he had decided that the best course in playing his part was to follow Katya’s lead—she had seemed to know what she was doing; he’d felt like the court jester. Their interlude on the balcony had dislodged the rigid control he usually held over his mind, and Katya’s warm, firm body moving against his had kept his blood stirred, making it impossible to concentrate on their charade as he worked to restrain the memories and feelings he thought he’d locked away forever. The constant conflict in his head had stretched his deception skills to the limit.

Every time he’d tried to cast an adoring look into those blue eyes, even though it wasn’t real, he’d felt like he was betraying Ginny. Then, the anger would take over and he’d remember that he had every right to be with any woman he wanted. But, no matter how his body responded to her, he didn’t really want Katya. He didn’t trust her, but he hated that he was taking advantage of her just to further his mission, even if she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she had encouraged him to do so; some of the things she’d whispered to him had made it nearly impossible to keep dancing.

The hotel suite door opened.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Harry raised his head to find Summers, frozen in the act of yanking off his tie and unbuttoning his collar, gaping at him. “No, I mean, what are you doing _here_.”

“Well, I wasn’t going back to her place. For all I know, she’s got a dozen of Dolohov’s thugs waiting there.”

Summers rolled his eyes. “So… what? You just sent her home?”

“No, she’s in there.” Harry cocked his head toward the room he and Summers had been sharing.

The moment they’d closed the door to the suite, Katya had shed her seductress persona like a too-warm cloak, and although she still wouldn’t give him any answers, she did quietly offer to keep the promises she’d made earlier. Harry was surprised that she’d seemed almost relieved when he had politely declined and that, instead of arguing about being locked in, she’d given him a look that could only be described as grateful.

But Harry didn’t feel like explaining that to Summers, and patted the couch. “I’ll stay here. I moved your bed in with Ingalls.”

Ignoring Summers’s indignant sputtering about mental stability and loud snoring, Ingalls gave Harry a serious look. “So what did you find out?”

“Nothing,” Harry muttered in irritation. “She wants me to go with her to meet someone tomorrow.”

“Are you going? You’ll need backup,” Ingalls said. “Who is it? Where?”

“Dunno. She won’t say. Just says that it’s better if I hear the story from the person who knows it best.” Harry shook his head in wonder. “That scene on the balcony was totally out of the blue. I have _no_ idea why she covered for me like that… or what she wants in return.”

“You don’t _know_ what she wants? Are you _barmy_?” Summers groaned as he stared with longing at the closed bedroom door and absently ran a hand over the front of his trousers. His voice took on a pleading tone. “Give me some Polyjuice. _I’ll_ give her what she wants.”

“Shut it, you wanker.” Harry was growing impatient with Summers’s one-track mind. “She gathers information for the Ministry. For her to defy them like this, she wants more than a friendly poke.”

“Harry’s right,” Ingalls said. “Something’s off about this. I don’t like it. But it’s a good thing you brought her here. They’ll be watching—here and at her place. If you’d sent her home alone, the game would be up. Is she locked in?”

“Yeah. My strongest alarms are set and I’ll be on watch out here. She should be okay.”

“But I still don’t understand why you’re _out here_.” Summers said. “You could be watching her _in there_. In your bed. _Naked_.”

Harry ran a hand through his already-ruffled hair and groaned in exasperation. “Some things _are_ more important than sex.”

Summers looked skeptical. “Well, maybe… but there’s no reason you can’t have sex, _too_. _Think_ about what you’re _doing_! I can’t believe you’re just going to pass _that_ up!”

Harry’s irritation finally rose to the surface. “Just because you’ll shag anything in a skirt, doesn’t mean everyone wants to!”

Summers threw his arms into the air, his frustration clear. “She was practically _begging_ you for it. It doesn’t _have_ to be a lifetime commitment, you know.”

Harry jumped from the couch, fists balled. “I said piss off! If I wanted to do it, I’d do it, but it would only remind me of things I can’t have, so there’s no point.” He clamped his mouth shut, furious that he’d let his exhaustion rule his emotions and make him say more than he’d intended.

Ingalls shoved Summers toward the bedroom. “Go to bed.” He gave Harry an approving look and jutted his chin at Summers. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Harry nodded gratefully as Summers grumbled off down the hall.

Hours passed as Harry stared with unseeing eyes into the fire, working to put his carefully compartmentalized brain back in order. Thoughts of Ginny fought valiantly for their freedom, taking the battle into the hollow of his chest and stirring up the longing for love and family he had worked so hard to suppress. God, he missed her… and Ron and Hermione and all of the family he’d come to think of as his own. The sudden yearning left him feeling empty, desolate. He couldn’t quite bring himself to hope that Ginny was happy with Dean, but he couldn’t hold on to the anger any longer either. Not when he missed her so much. Not when he loved her so much it hurt.

From years of experience, he knew that dwelling on what he couldn’t have was useless. But, like scabs on a wound that never heals, he pulled and poked at the memories and yearnings for a bit anyway just to feel the pain… just to feel _any_ thing besides the emptiness. When he couldn’t bear it any longer, he angrily jammed the feelings back into their box and nailed the lid down. He simply wasn’t meant to have a family—he had to accept it and move on.

The distant rumble of Ingalls’s snoring got louder and then softer again as the door to the bedroom opened and closed. Harry remained still, listening to Summers pad to the dining room in search of, apparently by the sounds that followed, something to drink from the magically chilled cupboard under the sideboard. As he came back through, Summers stopped at the doorway to the hall.

“You ’wake?” he whispered.

Harry waited several beats before answering with a sigh. “Yeah.”

“I think he’s louder than usual. Even the silencing charms aren’t helping tonight.”

Harry smiled into the dark. They’d had to resort to some creative spell casting to handle the problem when they were using the tent. “Want some help?”

“Nah. I’ll use ear plugs.” A moment passed before Summers spoke again. “Hey, um, about earlier. I didn’t mean to—”

Harry waved his hand wearily. “Forget it. You’re probably right. I’m completely mental.”

The silence lengthened and Harry thought for a moment that Summers had left. When he spoke again, his voice was tentative. “You know… it might help you to, you know, move on… maybe not her, but somebody… it wouldn’t have to be permanent… they don’t all want a commitment, you know—”

“You got any family?” Harry interrupted quietly, not taking his eyes from the fire.

The question seemed to surprise Summers. “Yeah… Mum and Dad. Three older brothers. Why?”

“You see them much?”

“Usually just at the holidays.”

“You keep in touch, though, right?”

Summers’s voice grew annoyed. “A bit. What are you on about?”

Harry took his time answering, swallowing hard to be sure his voice sounded normal when he finally spoke. “Just don’t take them for granted, yeah? Write a letter to your mother.”

Harry didn’t look to see Summers’s reaction and wasn’t surprised when, eventually, the bedroom door opened and closed again, leaving behind a heavy silence.

***

“Sorry, mate, but you just don’t look like a man who’s spent the night living out all of his fantasies with the ‘sveethardt ov vizarding Rrroosha!’”

Summers cackled merrily as Harry cast a rude gesture and a bleary-eyed glare over the rim of his coffee mug. He’d had a long night, managing to doze only lightly as his brain alternately battled with thoughts of Ginny and tried to decide which of Katya’s personalities to believe—the sultry seductress or the grateful victim.

“He’s right.” Ingalls wasn’t taking the mickey, but Harry glared at him, too. “Are you going to play this through, or do we need to get out now?”

Harry set his mug down and ran his fingers under his glasses with a heavy sigh of resignation. “I guess we need to play it through. She went way out on a limb for me last night. Even if she doesn’t know anything, if we disappear now, I think she’ll… suffer.”

Ingalls nodded in acceptance and tossed something at him. “Drink this, then.”

On reflex, Harry snatched the small bottle from the air and rolled it in his fingers. “What is it?”

“Euphoria Elixir. It’ll help you look the part, or at least look more relaxed, but it won’t muddle your brain. You need to keep your wits about you.”

Harry scowled at the sunshine yellow liquid. He didn’t want to look the part. He didn’t want to _play_ the part. Katya seemed to be making all of the rules for this game and he felt totally out of his depth. He wasn’t convinced that she knew anything, but he couldn’t just walk away at this point—and it angered him that his obsession for Dolohov would drive him to such lengths. But obsessed he was, so he was stuck trying to look like a man smitten by a woman he didn’t trust. Yeah, he’d definitely need to keep his wits sharp.

Summers suddenly gasped, choking on a mouthful of breakfast that went down the wrong passage as he stared across the room. Harry jumped from his chair, wand drawn, ready to do battle, only to find Katya hovering in the bedroom doorway—wearing, apparently, nothing but Harry’s dress shirt with only the bottom three buttons fastened. It hung nearly to her knees and covered everything it should, but somehow she managed to look sexier than any of the naked witches in the twins’s secret magazine stash. The seductress was back.

Harry cursed the part of his body that remembered too quickly what hers had felt like rubbing against it; he dodged behind Summers to hide what his well-worn flannel pyjama bottoms and too-short t-shirt had no hope of concealing. If he’d had any idea she would borrow his shirt like _that_ , he’d never have banished it back to the wardrobe in her—his—room after he’d changed in the other bathroom last night.

She watched Summers with a small crease of worry between her brows until Ingalls had whacked him on the back enough that he began to breathe again, then she turned her gaze to Harry. “I may speak with you for a moment, please?”

Nothing came out when Harry tried to answer, so he nodded.

She took a step backward and held out her hand. “Alone? Please?”

Face flaming, Harry tucked his wand back into his pocket and avoided Summers’s and Ingalls’s eyes as he followed her into the bedroom. He leaned back against the closed door, keeping his hand on the knob for ready escape, but she had reverted back to frightened innocent and stood hesitantly at the end of the bed with her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Harry scowled viciously as he concentrated on keeping his eyes on her face.

“You are angry with me?” Her eyes were wide with uncertainty and… was that fear?

“No!” It came out with more force than he intended. He took a deep breath and relaxed his face with an effort. “No. I just—”

She was next to him in the space of heartbeat, but held herself away and motioned for him to lean over so she could whisper into his ear. “I wish not to speak aloud. They will hear.”

He suddenly understood the fear—or at least her act—and spoke quietly next to her ear. “No, it’s okay. We’ve cast protection charms…”

Her hair brushed his cheek as she shook her head and lowered her voice so much that he had to lean closer and strain to hear. Even without touching, he could tell she was trembling. “We cannot give them reason—the Commander, he will find… what is saying?… false witnesses… that we were not— We must give evidence we are… together. After Quidditch match, I take you to meet someone… someone who know Dolohov as child. But they must not suspect. Is important to life. You will help me? Please?”

He pulled back to look into her pleading eyes. Did she really mean that someone might die? The fear on her face looked real—she appeared to be truly terrified of being caught in the lie she’d told… for _him_. For whatever reason, she’d saved his neck last night—probably Summers’s and Ingalls’s necks as well. He wouldn’t have gone quietly if the Russians had tried to take him and, no doubt, someone would have got hurt, not to mention the international scandal it would have triggered. He’d made the decision on his own to break into the Ministry, but now he had three people who would go down with him if the truth were discovered. And she would probably suffer the worst of it.

“I promise, when is safe, I tell everything.” Her voice was soft, but intense. “Please, be certain of me in this. I mean no harm. We want same end.”

He searched those impossibly blue eyes for anything that would give away her game. But hadn’t he already decided to see it through? If he was going to do this, what was the point in holding back?

“What do we need to do?” he asked, resigned to the task.

She closed her eyes and slumped in relief for a moment before looking back up at him. “They will be watching... at window. We must give another show. They...” She hesitated, then watched warily for his response as she continued. “They will take pictures.”

Oh, great! Pictures. His favorite thing. She sounded like she was working from a script that, no doubt, included leaking the photos to the press. With a grimace, he pushed the thought away—the press was an annoyance he’d learned to live with and he had more important matters to attend to right now. Huffing out a determined breath, he nodded his agreement and steeled himself for what was ahead, waiting stiffly for her to take the lead.

She pulled back and studied him for a moment; a sad look washed over her face. “Is so terrible to kiss me?”

Harry flushed and looked away. “No, I...” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence; he certainly wasn’t going to admit that he’d only ever been with one girl, not when she was so obviously experienced in these matters… and he should probably explore _that_ matter further, but he pushed the notion away for now and concentrated on how to look like less of a fool. Noticing the forgotten potion bottle in his hand, he watched it roll back and forth in his palm so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “I’m sorry… I’m a bit out of sorts… didn’t sleep well last night.” He finally looked at her and held up the bottle. “I think this will help.”

He pulled the cork and threw the contents back before he could change his mind. Resting his head against the door, he waited for the rush of adrenaline and endorphins to take effect... the same feeling that he had got catching the Snitch in a tight match or watching Voldemort fall for the final time… or his first time in the Room with—No! He couldn’t let that thought take form again.

The potion worked its magic quickly; he could feel his body relaxing in the giddy thrill of euphoria. Apparently, his face showed it, too, because Katya smiled.

She poked a finger through a rip in his shirt to tickle his ribs and smirked when he jerked away. “I may change this?” she whispered.

Harry looked at her in surprise. “Change what?”

She gave the rip a little tug and it opened a bit further. “These clothes. Is not very… um, romantic.”

He surveyed his pyjamas with fresh eyes and flushed. Wearing something “romantic” to bed had never crossed his mind—comfort was the main consideration—and the last time he’d found himself in a romantic situation like this, he hadn’t worn anything at all (he shut that thought down quickly). Katya was right. The red t-shirt and red-and-gold plaid flannel bottoms had fit perfectly well when Mrs. Weasley had got them for him fifth year, but he’d long since grown too tall for them. The fabric was almost transparent and frayed at the bottoms into a wild mane of tangled thread.

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I guess that would be a good idea.”

She retrieved her wand from the night table and flicked it at him, leaving him shirtless and transfiguring his pyjama bottoms into black silk—which did even less to hide the embarrassing tent than the worn flannel had. Her pupils dilated as she slowly caressed his body with her eyes. From the chills that ran across his skin, she might as well have used her fingers. But she made no comment, only held out her hand in invitation as she backed toward the window.

Swallowing hard, he followed. Katya turned to face the window, pulling Harry’s arms around her waist from behind and hugging them to her. He pressed a cheek against her hair, carefully keeping his hands away from dangerous places and a bit of space between their lower bodies; the elixir might have him on an unnatural high, but his mind was clear and he intended to stay in control this time.

Framed in the window, they watched the snowflakes floating onto the terrace garden, turning the magical flowers into sugar-coated candy. Anyone taking a picture would be able to identify them both easily. After a few moments, she turned in his arms. His stomach flipped and he drew in a steadying breath as she twined her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers.

“You are okay?” she whispered against his mouth.

He could taste something sweet on her breath and suddenly realized that he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet. As he started to pull back, she pushed a hand into his hair and stood up on tiptoes to suck on his bottom lip. The unexpected move shifted his hand down from the small of her back onto her firm round bottom; his body responded on its own, pulling her tightly against him. _So much for staying in control._ Some small part of his mind held on, but knowing what they were trying to accomplish, he went with the flow, meeting her tongue with his, burying a fist in her hair, even as he eased his other hand into more neutral territory. The kiss seemed to last forever, but it was almost more comforting than passionate. When she broke the contact, Harry was engulfed with a sense of loss, even though she remained wrapped in his arms, dragging her nails in light circles over his scalp. He closed his eyes and leaned into the sensation, resisting the urge to pant with pleasure like an overgrown puppy.

“I must go now. To get ready for Quidditch match.” She stretched up for another soft kiss, then disentangled herself from him. He told himself that his reluctance to let go was all part of the act.

She stepped back into her strappy high heels, shrunk her ball gown and put it into her cloak pocket, then slipped the cloak on over his shirt. His body overheated at the thought that she was going to go out in public like that, even if no one else would know.

She was halfway through the blessedly empty dining room, heading down to the lobby Apparition point, before he remembered his manners and scrambled to catch her up at the main door to the suite. “I should walk you down.”

“Is no need” She ran an appreciative glance down him. “You are not dressed.”

He flamed like a torch and ran a nervous hand over the scattering of dark hair on his chest. “Oh—ah, yeah. Guess not.”

She smiled and put a gentle hand on his cheek. “You are good man, Harry Potter. Thank you.” The words were said with such intense emotion that he couldn’t remember how to breathe for a moment, much less come up with a response. “I see you at Quidditch match.”

Harry nodded, feeling dazed. “Yeah. At the match.”

He stood for several moments staring at the closed door, wondering how he’d forgotten his resolve to stay in control. Maybe it was another potion or some sort of spell she’d cast when she’d transfigured his clothes? He felt like he was trying to hang onto a bewitched broom, never knowing which way she was going to toss him next.

“Now, _that_ looks like a man who’s been living his fantasies.” Summers’s voice, wistful but not taunting, jerked Harry from his thoughts.

“Piss off,” Harry said without animosity and headed back to the bedroom for a shower—an ice cold one.

***

“I don’t like this.”

Harry kept his face impassive as Ingalls’s voice murmured in his ear. From his spot near the back wall with Ingalls and Summers standing shoulder to shoulder behind him, he idly surveyed the growing crowd in the Minister’s box and barely moved his mouth as he responded. “They’ve stepped up security a bit.”

“From two to six? Yeah, I’d say a bit. And these are the elite squad, not the trainees they had at the last three matches.”

With another casual scan of the crowd, Harry noted the additional bars on the Russian Enforcement Squad uniforms. He raised his glass of vodka to his mouth, but didn’t let the liquid pass his lips; a silent vanishing charm decreased the contents of the glass just enough to look convincing.

“They’ve changed the wards, too,” Ingalls continued, barely loud enough to hear. “Still can’t Apparate in, but now you can Disapparate.”

“Wonder what they’re expecting?”

“Or planning. Take this. It’s Disillusioned.”

At the tap on his hip, Harry dropped his left hand to his side to take the cool circle of metal Ingalls pressed into his palm. With an inward grimace, he slipped the tracking ring onto his pinkie finger.

“I _can_ take care of myself, you know.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Ingalls growled. “Summers will go ballistic if we lose you again. Think of it as forestalling an international crisis.”

Harry smirked, but didn’t argue. For all his whinging and taking the mickey during their off hours, Summers was all business when they were on duty, especially in a fight. He still felt responsible for not watching Harry’s back in the first raid last autumn, and tended to overreact if he couldn’t keep track of both partners during a skirmish.

A disturbance at the box entrance drew their attention and Harry worked hard at fixing a pleasant look on his face.

“Harry! Is so good to see you again!”

At the booming greeting, Harry moved his glass into his left hand just in time for the Minister to grab his right hand and pump it vigorously as he pounded Harry’s shoulder with his other hand, slopping vodka everywhere.

“So! Our Katya, she is wonderful, yes? Another drink for our guest of honor!” he bellowed to the elves without waiting for Harry’s answer. “And where is our little sweetheart?”

“Oh, err, she, um… she went home to change,” Harry stammered as he tried to dry off his hand and accept another glass from the elf at his knee. “She should be here soon.”

A sly grin spread over the Minister’s face. “Ah, so you had long night, yes?”

Harry flushed and schooled his expression; every eye in the box was on him. “Er, yeah…”

The Minister’s thunderous laughter rattled the walls of the box as he slapped Harry on the back again. “You join me on front row when she comes, yes?”

Without waiting for an answer, the Minister lumbered off to greet the rest of the guests. Harry breathed a sigh of relief that the Minister had chosen to ignore last night’s confrontation and felt no need to stay by his side today.

Harry snuck a glance at his watch, wondering how late Katya would be, although he was glad to have a few minutes to prepare himself for what was to come. The icy shower and subsequent strategy discussion with Ingalls and Summers had put his head back in order, but he was determined to remain in control once she arrived. He couldn’t afford not to at this point.

Five minutes after the Quaffle was released, Katya blew in with a flourish—a vision in a sapphire hooded cloak trimmed in brilliant white embroidery that cast an ethereal glow on her face. Her passionate greeting for Harry ignited a ripple of laughter through the crowd and an explosion of camera flashes from the photographers in the boxes on either side. When she finally allowed him to breathe again, she led him to the two empty seats next to the Minister and dramatically removed her cloak to reveal a white cashmere turtleneck and soft sapphire trousers, both of which fit like a second skin with no unnatural bulges to indicate there was likely nothing but what mother nature had given her beneath. The open-front VIP box was considerably warmer than the frigid outside air, but not warm enough to feel comfortable without a cloak; her body responded immediately to the chill, making its own natural bumps and triggering a collective strangled male groan. She resolved the problem by using her wand to remove the cushioned arms between her chair and Harry’s so she could snuggle up next to him.

The Euphoria Elixir that Harry taken earlier had mostly worn off, but it had left a mellow afterglow that made it easier for him to smile and appear to respond with pleasure to all of the theatrics. He still wasn’t comfortable with the show, but he found that if he thought about it as part of his job, he could detach his feelings from his actions and follow Katya’s lead more easily.

With everything else that was happening, Harry had thought he would have a hard time concentrating on the match, but Katya proved to be an entertaining companion and he soon found himself relaxing as much as possible under the circumstances. Although he suspected she knew much more about the sport than she let on, he patiently answered her questions about strategy and laughed at her comical observations.

Meanwhile, in his detached mindset, he was on the alert, mentally cataloguing the position and movements of everyone else in the box, especially the security detail. Ingalls and Summers were still standing guard at the back of the box, but Harry wanted to be ready for whatever was coming.

As he listened to one of Katya’s anecdotes, he began to study her pale, perfectly manicured nails resting against the fuzz of black hair on the back of his hand. Without warning, a memory of short nails on freckled fingers threatened to ooze from its container, so he quickly shifted his eyes to the shimmering embroidery at the edge of Katya’s cloak draped over her legs. The elaborately detailed images of unicorns prancing in a snowy forest were done in coarse, pearly white thread that looked strangely familiar. He ran a thumb over the shifting scene and realized what he was looking at.

“Is this unicorn hair?”

She stopped in mid-word and looked at him in surprise before curiously eyeing the trim he was holding up to her. “Yes, I think so. Why?”

Harry blinked at her. “No reason… uh, just curious,” he mumbled and looked quickly away to hide the shock in his eyes. Unicorn hair was incredibly expensive and usually used only for wand cores and potions—at least as far as he knew. Hagrid was the only one he knew who seemed to have an endless supply to use for mundane things like tying off bandages for injured creatures. A cloak embroidered this heavily with such a rare substance must have cost nearly as much as the contents of his Gringott’s vault. Could she possibly make that much as a singer?

“It was a gift,” she said tentatively, ducking her head to try to catch his eye.

“Oh,” was all he could think of to say as an unexpected knot of revulsion formed in his chest; a _gift_ that expensive was even worse. He turned his eyes back toward the pitch as if he were searching for the Snitch. In spite of his body’s undeniable attraction to her, he had no intention of getting involved with her (or anyone)—but part of him still wanted to trust her, to believe that she really was just a victim of the Ministry’s manipulations who was trying to help. His breakfast conversation with Ingalls began to replay itself in his head:

_“You do realize they’ll use those pictures to try to blackmail you, right?”_

_“And how will they do that? I don’t care who sees them.”_

_Ingalls studied him a moment. “There’s no one who would be hurt if they saw them?”_

_Harry met his gaze steadily. “No one.”_

_With a look of blatant disbelief, Ingalls pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Just watch yourself, Harry. She’s a professional. You’re a babe in the woods to her. She’ll eat you alive if you give her the chance.”_

Harry had thought the comment strange at the time, even though he didn’t question it. Katya did seem more experienced, but she was only twenty-two, just four years older. He’d simply put her experience down to having lived a different life with more opportunity to date. _She’s a professional_ —seeing such an expensive “gift” drove Ingalls’s meaning home. He’d heard about such women, even seen a couple in the processing room at Auror Headquarters. He’d always thought of them as coming from the dregs of society, not holding the respect and adoration of the rich and famous—and definitely not being nice people who could make him want to trust them. He finally understood just what a master she was at this game and wondered how many others she’d played it with.

“Harry, you are all right?”

Her gentle concern pulled him from his thoughts and he gave her a forced smile as he scrambled to get back into character. “Yeah. Fine. I just—I know someone who takes care of unicorns. Seeing your cloak reminded me that I haven’t seen him in a while—I need to write to him.”

She smiled and asked about the action over the pitch—the Bulgarians were ahead of the Russians, 230-90. The match wasn’t out of reach, but it hadn’t been particularly exciting yet, either.

As Harry answered her questions, he began noting how her every move seemed calculated to put on the best show—the way she tipped her head close to his and hung on his every word; the way she stroked his knee or played with his fingers; the way she twirled a strand of her hair around her finger and kept her lips moist with a flick of her pink tongue. He wondered again who was manipulating whom… and why.

A glint of gold flashed in front of him and zoomed toward the Russian goal. Harry jumped to his feet. “The Snitch!”

Krum and Volkevich flattened against their brooms as the crowd rose to scream encouragement to their favorite. The two Seekers flew neck-and-neck, jostling each other as they weaved and dived through players and Bludgers, creating small flurries in the rapidly falling snow.

Katya clung to Harry’s arm, bouncing on the balls of her feet and, to his surprise, encouraging Krum. When the pair of brooms went into a steep dive at top speed, she gasped and buried her face in Harry’s shoulder, not daring to look up again until he joined the cheers when the Seekers pulled out inches from the ground and tiny gold wings beat frantically on either side of Krum’s fist. She threw herself into Harry’s arms in celebration. In the excitement of the moment, he forgot his disgust and wrapped her close.

The squeeze of Apparition took him by surprise.


	27. Kat Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katya's game is finally clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some potentially disturbing imagery.
> 
> To any Russian readers: I researched the use of endearments as much as possible; please forgive any inaccuracies and feel free to offer suggestions/corrections.

Harry’s wand was out almost before they landed in what looked like a cluttered warehouse, but Katya was already flipping open the clasp on his cloak.

“Quickly! They will follow,” she whispered frantically.

Before he could ask what was going on, she had pushed the cloak from his shoulders and grabbed his arm. When they materialized behind a bin in a dark corner between two towering buildings, he pushed her away and pointed his wand at her before she could grab his hand again.

“No! Where are—”

“Please!” She turned pleading eyes on him. “I do not know if they make other following charms. We must go inside and I explain.”

He jerked away from her again. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where and why?”

Wringing her hands frantically, she choked through a tear-filled voice. “We go to my home at Nevsky Prospekt 223, number 918. Please. We must hurry.”

The words stopped Harry cold. She was a Secret Keeper. He wasn’t sure how he knew—perhaps from the phrasing of the words or the desperation in her eyes—but the fact decided him. “Let’s go.”

“No wand. Is Muggle building,” she whispered over her shoulder as she led him out of the alley.

Harry shoved his wand up his sleeve for quick access and threw a glance over his shoulder. Ingalls and Summers wouldn’t be able to find them once they were within the Fidelius Charm, but his gut was telling him to trust her in spite of his earlier misgivings.

Regretting the loss of his warm cloak, Harry shivered in the thickening snowfall as they ran up the front steps of the ancient gray concrete building that blended seamlessly in with the others like it on the busy city street. Inside was no warmer, but by the time they finished running to the top of the dimly lit stairwell, Harry was breathing hard and wiping sweat from his brow. Katya held up a hand to stop him as she peeked into the hallway. Waving at him to follow, she sprinted the length of the long dark corridor, past a dozen nondescript doors to the second one from the end.

“You can see?” she asked breathlessly. When he nodded, she inserted her key and pulled him inside, then sagged against the door, eyes closed, gasping for air.

Wand out again, Harry scanned the surprisingly spacious flat for any sign of danger. It was apparently empty, but for the two of them.

With echoes of Moody’s voice bellowing “constant vigilance” in his head, Harry turned his wand back on her. “Okay, it’s time for some answers.”

She opened her eyes and nodded, gesturing for him to sit.

“I think I’ll stand, thanks.” Noting the way she was trembling against the door, he cocked his head toward the seating area. “But you go ahead.”

As she sank with a grateful look into the nearest armchair, Harry paced the room. He had not expected the space to be so large, and the two floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to suck in more daylight than was available had to have been added magically—he hadn’t noticed anything like them from the exterior of the building. The sunshine-colored walls, lush green carpet, and cozy furnishings in similar hues gave it a cheery, welcoming feeling. Harry assumed the two doors on opposite sides of the sitting room led to the kitchen and bedroom.

At the sound of footsteps, he spun to aim his wand at the newcomer who appeared in the door leading off the right side of the room. The woman stopped, wide-eyed, with a squeak of fear. Katya began babbling to her in Russian.

“English,” Harry growled, holding his wand steady, too cautious to take the time to flick it for the translation charm.

“She will not understand.” Katya rose to her feet and held a placating hand to the woman as she turned to Harry. “She will not harm you. She cannot do magic.”

Harry maintained his defensive stance. “Who is she?”

Katya frowned for a moment. “Is, um… caretaker. She helps… with meals… and such.”

“Is this who you’ve brought me to talk to? She doesn’t look old enough to have known Dolohov as a child.”

“No. Is not her.”

Harry eyed her suspiciously. “Who else is here? How many others?”

“Only one. Please, I explain. Allow me tell Irina is okay.”

With a flick of his wand, Harry cast the translation charm. “Go ahead.”

Katya turned back to the terrified woman. “Irina, don’t be afraid. He’s here to help. How is she?”

The woman eyed Harry nervously, but relaxed a bit as she shook her head sadly at Katya. “It’s a bad day. I gave her some medication. She’s calm now.”

Katya heaved a weary sigh and nodded. “Thank you. Please stay with her. We will come soon.”

With a final worried glance at Harry, Irina faded back into the darkened doorway.

Katya sank back into the chair and dropped her head into her hands. “She is worse every day,” she muttered to herself.

Harry lowered his wand, fighting to maintain his caution as sympathy for her obvious distress tried to take over. “Who?”

Katya looked up, seeming to just remember his presence. She gave him a tight smile and gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit. I explain.”

Harry sat gingerly on the edge of the cushion, loosening the death grip on his wand a fraction and watching her expectantly.

She drew a steadying breath and pushed her hair back from her face. “My _babushka..._ my grandmother. She...” Katya stopped as her voice cracked. Swallowing hard, she swiped at her eyes and took another deep breath as she began again in a strangled voice that broke and occasionally dropped to a whisper. “She is Muggle… she raise me from young child. But now, her mind… is not strong. She does not know me… I seek healing… Muggle doctors do nothing but require much money… magic Healers help only little… they say spells do not work so well on Muggles…” Katya stopped again, struggling for control as she rose and walked to the window, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle. “She is only family left,” she whispered over a choked sob.

Harry’s heart clenched; he knew that feeling all too well. Fidgeting on the sofa, he tried to decide what he should do. She was so obviously upset, he felt a need to comfort her somehow, but he shied away from touching her again. He still wasn’t sure why he was here or what she wanted, and he needed to keep his feelings out of it until the situation was more clear. But she just looked so miserable…

Before he could make a decision, a wisp of silver zipped over his shoulder and coalesced into a shimmering fox with Scott Summers’s voice.

“Potter! Where the bloody hell _are_ you? We can tell you’re here, but we lost you in this effin’ hallway. If you’re somewhere shagging Kat—”

Harry whipped a silencing charm at the Patronus and sent his own silently through the door to tell Summers and Ingalls to wait for him there.

The interruption was enough to break the tension. Katya returned to him, red-eyed but in control again, and held out her hand. “Come. We go to her.”

Harry hesitated; surely she didn’t expect… “What do you want me to do? I can’t make her better.”

She gave him a sad smile. “No. But you stop Dolohov. Give her peace.”

Doubtful of his ability to live up to her confidence in him, Harry followed her down the short hallway into one of the two bedrooms leading off of it. Like the sitting room, this one was much brighter and more spacious than it should be, but done in pink and blue florals on a soothing beige background. An old woman stared blindly out of the tall window from the depths of a plush armchair, her face slack, her body motionless.

Katya knelt before the woman and took the gnarled hands into hers. She looked hopefully into the wrinkled face. As she started to speak in Russian again, Harry cast the translation charm. “Babulyia? It’s Katya. I have brought someone to see you.”

The woman gave no response. If he hadn’t seen the slight rise and fall of her chest, Harry might have thought she was dead. Katya’s eyes filled with tears again as she lifted the lifeless hands to her lips. After a moment, she stood and drew a deep breath.

“I wish you to hear of Dolohov from her so you understand. The Healers give me spell to lift veil from mind for little while, but I cannot cast much… is too draining of strength. We will have but little time.”

Harry held his breath as Katya circled her wand three times over her grandmother’s head and murmured the spell. A dark grey mist rose into the air above the silver hair and dissipated as the light came back into the pale blue eyes.

“Katya?” The woman’s weary voice quivered as she reached out a trembling hand.

Katya dropped to the floor again and rested her cheek on her grandmother’s knee. “I am here, Babulyia. I have brought someone to see you.”

Babulyia stroked Katya’s hair with loving fingers as she looked at Harry and smiled gently. “Ah, my precious child, you have found a good man to love you, to care for you when I am gone?”

Harry flushed under her scrutiny but didn’t protest at her words.

“He is a good man, Babulyia.” Katya cast a grateful look at Harry before turning sorrowful eyes back to her grandmother. “He seeks to stop Dolohov. You must tell him the story.”

The wrinkled face contorted in pain, her eyes on Harry turning cold. Katya wrapped her arms around Babulyia’s waist, hugging her close. “I hate to use our time so, but it’s important. He will finally face justice.”

“There is no justice!” Babulyia spat. “No justice good enough.”

“No, never good enough. But he must be stopped. Please tell the story. Quickly before our time is gone.”

Babulyia gave Harry a searching look, then smiled lovingly at Katya before laying her head back against the chair and sighing wearily. “Yes, I will tell the story.”

For several long moments, she remained silent, her hands stroking Katya’s hair gently. Katya rested her head on Babulyia’s knee, seemingly content to wait until the woman was ready to speak. Harry struggled to hold his questions in as he watched the tableau, amazed at seeing yet another side of Katya.

Babulyia’s raspy whisper soon broke the heavy silence. “When I was a child, my father was the manager of the local factory. My family lived in a large apartment... we didn’t have to share with another family. We had plenty food and warm clothes. My little brother and I went to a good school. We were happy. When the war came, my mother took us to the country. I didn’t learn until later that others did not have such good life.” She stopped and drew a ragged breath as another look of pain crossed her face.

“We returned to Moscow, when I was thirteen and my brother was ten. One day, my brother and I went with my father to the factory. There was a boy there not much older than me, a worker. He was thin and dirty with clothes that were too big, torn, no more than rags, really. It was Dolohov. My father yelled at him to work harder, but he just watched us. The look on his face was frightening. I began to see him everywhere… When I was at school, he looked through the fence. When I was at home, he watched from the street. I asked my mother about him. She said his parents had died and he had lived with his cousins from time he was baby. They didn’t take very good care of him. He was always angry. From a young age, he made strange things happen, she told me. It was not good, then, to be different, to call attention to your family. They would beat him when things happened, but as he grew older, he started to hurt people... no one could tell how he did it. Everyone was frightened of him.

“Now, I know what he was doing, but, then, we did not know of magic…” She stopped and cast a gentle smile at Katya. “Not until my beautiful Katya came along.” Katya smiled up at her and kissed the gnarled hand lying next to her face.

Babulyia looked out of the window, scowling at the horizon in hatred. “One day, I was in the garden with my brother. Dolohov spoke to me. He asked why I thought I was better… why I deserved a bigger apartment, good food, warm clothes. ‘Give according to your ability, receive according to your needs. Pah!’ he said. ‘What are you giving to get all of this?’ I was too frightened to answer. He leaned closer and told me he would make me pay for thinking I was better. I took my brother inside and told my mother. She told my father. He sent the NKVD, but they took away Dolohov’s cousin, instead. No one could say why. The next day, Dolohov watched us from the street again. I tried to keep my brother inside, but he slipped out when I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t find him. The police came; for two days, they looked everywhere. I stayed inside, but suddenly I knew where to look... I can’t say how. I sneaked out and went to the basement boiler room.” The wrinkled face crumpled in agony. Katya hugged her tightly as the words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “He was hanging by his arms from the pipes… naked… he was bleeding from every opening… eyes, ears, mouth… from the back… his insides were coming out.”

The room grew deathly still, the sound of Babulyia’s ragged breathing the only sound as Harry choked back the bile in his throat. This sounded like an early version of Dolohov’s signature curse, but what had he done to the boy for two days before casting it? The thought made Harry want to retch.

“I stood there in shock,” the quiet tale continued. “Dolohov came up behind me and whispered that I would be next. I screamed and screamed. The police came and Dolohov disappeared. Just like that... poof! No one believed me. Everyone said the NKVD took him, but I know better. Two weeks later I saw him from the window, with another boy. Dolohov smiled at me... that smile is evil. He put a letter in our box. It said that he was going to Albania to learn better ways to make me pay, then he would come back for me.”

She sagged against the chair, her words beginning to slur. “My mother died of grief… my father asked too many questions of the police… one day he left for work and never came home. I was left alone, always afraid…”

The words trailed off into nothing as the light went out of her eyes and she stared blindly out of the window. Katya’s muffled sobs were the only sound in the room.

Irina appeared and gently lifted Katya to her feet. “We must get her back into bed.”

Katya swiped at her eyes and nodded, then pointed her wand to levitate Babulyia to the bed.

Harry slipped down the hall to wait in the sitting room, his mind racing through the story again. Dolohov’s tale was eerily close to Voldemort’s... and his own. It did give some insight into why Dolohov was driven by greed and the need for superiority, but perhaps the biggest clue was that he’d gone to Albania—Harry did the math quickly—the first time Voldemort was there. Yes, it was a lead, but not clearly a significant one. Maybe there was more to the story; perhaps they’d run out of time before Babulyia could tell everything.

Harry ran his hands under his glasses and growled in frustration as he slumped against the window frame. His appreciation for Dumbledore was growing by the minute; the meticulous search for clues into Tom Riddle’s background had to have taken years, if this was how it had gone. He’d expected more today; nothing he’d learned so far had pointed to a weakness that could be exploited or gave a clue where Dolohov could be found now. If Babulyia’s story was complete, this whole charade with Katya had been huge a waste of time.

Katya. Harry sighed heavily. He didn’t know what to make of this whole new side of her. Should he trust her? Was finding Dolohov to give her grandmother peace really the only thing she wanted?

“Harry?”

He startled at the tentative voice and turned to find her standing anxiously by the doorway. She looked pale and weary. His heart went out to her, but he steeled himself against his emotions—he had far too many questions to get sucked back into her game.

Pushing off from the window frame, he met her in the middle of the room. “Will she be okay? Are you okay?” He could still be considerate, even if he had to keep his mind on his mission.

She nodded and gestured for him to sit as she sank back into the armchair. “She will sleep.” Drawing a deep breath as if to gather her courage, Katya leveled her gaze at him. “You have questions, yes?”

Harry grimaced, hating himself for having to put her through this now, but he nodded and went through the half-formed list in his head. “It’s not a lot to go on. What happened after... Did she ever hear from him again?”

Katya shook her head. “No. But, even now, she worry that he will come for her… or for me. His shadow hangs over her always. She marry eventually, but my grandfather disappear after my mother is born. She believe is Dolohov who take him. Maybe, maybe not... no one ever know.”

“What about your parents? You said she raised you…”

Katya sighed wistfully. “Babulyia is so frightened, she become too… protective. My mother run away with soldier. After one month, he is sent to new post and leave her. My mother learn she is pregnant and come back to Babulyia, but she is too sad. She not care for herself and when I am born, she does not survive.”

“So your father was a wizard?”

Katya shrugged. “We do not know. Babulyia never meet him.”

She subsided into silence, her eyes downcast, her fingers twisted into a mangled knot on her lap. Harry blew out a frustrated breath and walked back to the window, leaning a forearm on the frame as he tried to work out what to do.

“What is next?” Katya asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” he answered without turning. “You tell me. We’ll probably head for Albania next, but we’ve got to get out of Russia first. What’s the Ministry’s next move?”

Several silent moments passed before she spoke in a trembling voice. “They wish to examine your wand. They will use pictures to frighten you.”

Harry snorted. “They don’t know me very well, do they? What else?”

“If you were… lesser person, they would take you for questioning without worry for evidence. Because you are… who you are, they must have better case. Is possible they will allow you to leave with only intimidation.”

“And what about you? You haven’t exactly been doing your job. What will happen to you when I’m gone?”

She straightened her back and firmly fixed her mask of confidence back into place, but wouldn’t look at him. “You should not worry for me. Is more important to find Dolohov.”

“They’ll punish you, won’t they?” She had put everything on the line for him and now she was telling him to walk away without a second thought? Something snapped inside of Harry and he spoke more harshly than he intended. “Why do you let them control you like this? Why don’t you just leave? We can get you out—”

“Where would I go?” Her eyes flashed and finally met his. “I cannot leave Babulyia and is impossible to get Muggle travel visa. But even if I go, they would come for me. I am trained since I am fourteen for this. They—”

“ _Fourteen_!” Harry exploded. “They turned you into a—a—at fourteen?” Suddenly, fighting a dragon at that age didn't sound so bad.

“A whore? Is that word you seek? I prefer ‘spy.’” She jumped to her feet, fists clenched for a fight. “And I _never_ do that! They teach me to promise, to tease, to get information, then if I wish not to... to... follow through, I use spells and potions to leave memories of things that do not happen.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped as he stared at her in shock. How could that be possible after the performances she’d given? “So, you... you’re... you’ve never...?”

She averted her eyes. “I... I have met no one that I would want to…” She raised her chin in determination, but for the briefest of moments she looked young and vulnerable as her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “…yet.”

Harry swallowed thickly, wondering how this conversation had got so completely out of hand. It was his turn to look away.

“Er, we, ah, I think we need to go. We...”

She dropped her eyes; her shoulders slumped. “I will stay here. I must see to Babulyia.”

“But...”

“Is okay,” she said, her mask back in place. “I will see you at ceremony tonight. We will keep on with show. They will not know.”

They stared at each other across the room for several long moments, the awkward tension sparking something in Harry that made it hard to keep from reaching out to offer her comfort. She was as alone as he was, or soon would be. Maybe Summers was right. Perhaps…

He shook the thought away and nodded. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

She didn’t move as he slipped out of the door.

***

Summers waved his wand at the door to their suite, then threw out an arm to stop their progress. “The wards have been breeched.”

“Not surprising,” Ingalls said as he and Harry drew their wands and matched Summers’s defensive stance.

They pushed the door open slowly and burst through it, each pointing their wands in different directions. The room looked like a bomb had exploded in it, with feathers and scraps of torn paper forming a snow-like layer across overturned furniture and slashed cushions. The bedrooms had fared no better with the contents of their trunks scattered from floor to ceiling—Harry was glad he’d kept his important things with him in his Mokeskin pouch.

“Harry, I think these are for you.” Ingalls held up an open envelope at the dining table.

When the pictures spilled onto the table, Harry grunted a humorless laugh. “Maybe I should autograph them and send them back, yeah?”

“You don’t give autographs,” Summer deadpanned.

“I think I could make an exception in this case.”

“Or, perhaps we send them to _Daily Prophet_ , yes?”

The three of them whipped around at the sound of the Russian Commander’s voice. Three members of the elite squad stood behind him just inside the door.

“Go right ahead,” Harry challenged with a smirk. “Makes no difference to me.”

The Commander glowered at him. “Where did you go when you leave stadium?”

Harry gave him a wry grin. “I’ve never been one to kiss and tell, Commander, but Katya and I decided to, erm…  do a little celebrating on our own.”

The Commander held up Harry’s cloak. “Then how did this end up in Muggle warehouse south of city?”

Harry gave him a goofy grin and shrugged. “Well, you know, we were a bit… ah, distracted. Got our aim off a bit, I guess, before we got it right. Thanks for collecting it for me… Hang on.” He drew on a carefully confused frown that he was sure would fool no one. “How did you know where we went? You put a tracking charm on me, didn’t you?”

“Very clever, Mr. Potter,” the Commander said in a sarcastic tone. “Now answer the question. Where did you go?”

Harry gave him a deadly serious look. “I told you. We went to Katya’s place.”

“No! You were not there.”

Realizing she must have an “official” residence that didn’t include her grandmother, Harry gave the Commander a brilliant smile. “Just because you didn’t see us, didn’t mean we weren’t there. I know some rather interesting concealment charms for when I _really_ don’t want to be…” —he waggled his eyebrows— “…interrupted.”

“Enough!” The Commander held out his hand. “We will examine your wand, now, Mr. Potter.”

“I’ll be glad to give you a demonstration…” Harry cocked an eyebrow at him and raised his wand tip, leaving no question about the meaning of his words. “…if you really want to see it work that badly.” Summers and Ingalls raised their wands, too.

The Russian agents tensed, but the Commander held up a hand to stop them and leveled a piercing gaze at Harry. “You and I are not finished.” He turned on his heel. His men parted to allow him to leave the room, then followed him stiffly through the door.

When they were gone, Summers flicked his wand to slam the door and blew out a relieved breath. “You’re turning into a right scary liar, Potter. You almost had _me_ believing all that shi—hang on—you didn’t... did you?”

Harry rolled his eyes.

Ingalls clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here while we can.”

Harry shook his head. “No. We need to go to the awards ceremony. We’ve still got Katya to consider.” He gestured to Summers as he headed for the door. “See if you can sort through this mess and get our stuff together. I need to talk to Viktor.”

Summers’s bellow of protest followed him down the hall.

***

After the emotional stress of the afternoon, Harry was amazed that Katya was able to play the “sated lover” perfectly throughout the raucous ceremony. He struggled to stay in his role, anxious for his plan to get underway. Viktor had agreed to take care of the details, and now all that was left was to play out the game and make a clean getaway.

As the festivities wound down, the crowd gave each team a rowdy send-off when they gathered around their respective Portkeys, timed to leave at ten-minute intervals. As the tournament winners, the Bulgarian team and their guests were the last to leave.

The biggest round of applause went to Harry and Katya when they made no attempt to hide their very passionate farewell.

“You will owl me, Harry?” Katya murmured in his ear as he held her close.

“Yes, of course.”

“Harry, it’s time. Come on!” Summers beckoned from inside the glowing boundary where the team had gathered to touch the engorged Quaffle.

Harry moved within reach of the group, pulling Katya with him and tipping her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “You trust me, don’t you?”

She looked confused. “Yes. But...”

“Then just kiss me like you can’t bear to let go.”

Hesitating only a fraction of a second, she flung her arms around his neck. The kiss drew catcalls and cheers.

“Harry, now!” Summers called.

Without breaking the kiss, Harry tightened his arm around Katya’s waist and spun quickly into the boundary to grab the Quaffle… just as it glowed blue.


	28. Pictures Don't Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny is confronted with Harry's new life and finds an escape (not necessarily in that order).

Looking angry and determined, Dean was blocking her path.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

“Out.” Ginny couldn’t keep the edge from her voice as she bristled.

Since when had Dean decided he could tell her what to do? She was already nervous about her practice session with Neville, and she really didn’t need a row right now. But she didn’t intend to back down—the time had come to settle this.

“I’ll come with you.” The challenge in Dean’s eyes was clear. His frown deepened when she crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow at him.

Her tone remained level, but frosty cold. “No, that’s all right. I’m meeting Neville.”

His tight voice betrayed his barely-controlled anger. “So, that’s it, huh? Just like that you’re back to normal and you’ve chosen Neville. After all the shite you’ve put me through, I don’t even get a chance?”

Ginny’s jaw dropped and she stared at him, frozen with shock and pain as her brain scrambled to work out which part of that absurd statement to answer first. Back to _normal_? And the shite she’d put him through, as if it had all been calculated to cause _him_ the most pain? No, she couldn’t deal with that right now—it hurt too much. When she finally found her voice, the words came out tinged with cold fury.

“I chose Neville _years_ ago—” Dean snorted in disbelief but she clenched her fists at her sides and continued. “—just like I chose _you_ … As! A! _Friend_! And I can spend my time with any friend I choose.”

Ginny was instantly overwhelmed with the memory of saying similar words in this very spot to Harry… about Dean. The irony of the situation bubbled up in a fit of hysterical giggles that she had to bite her tongue to contain. Dean saw the fleeting smile and exploded.

“Fine! Then I’ll spend time with my other _friends_ , too. Maybe I’ll even ask Lisa to Hogsmeade. I suppose you’ll be going, too, now that you’ve got _Neville_ to protect you from the reporters,” he sneered.

Ginny’s giggles died an abrupt death as she stepped forward to put her finger in Dean’s face. “I told you weeks ago to ask Lisa to Hogsmeade, but don’t you _dare_ do it if it’s only to get back at me. If you hurt her on my account, so help me I'll hex your bits into such tiny pieces you'll need an Engorgement Charm to find them with a magnifying glass.” 

Dean started to retort, but Ginny cut him off with a poke to the chest. “And for your information, I’m teaching Neville to fly!” With that, she burst through the portrait hole and raced down the stairs before he could respond.

Neville was waiting in their usual spot, but Ginny was still seething when she reached him. She had to find a way to work off her rage before she took him up or they’d both be in trouble.

“Neville, I’m sorry. I have to go by myself first. I’ll stay in sight, but I... just... just wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She ignored his anxious look and kicked off before he could stop her, flattening herself against the broom handle. At the first blast of icy wind on her face, she heaved a sigh of relief as it cooled the raging fury inside of her. Her mind cleared and peace engulfed her—not the foggy, disengagement she’d experienced last autumn, but a calm sanity that soothed her anger and eased her fears. She felt completely in control as she flew at top speed along the treetops, dodging and weaving between the odd branches that stuck above the others. After a few moments, she spun sharply and dived straight for the lake, pulling out at the last second, allowing only the bottom-most twigs in her broom tail to skim the water.

Neville was still standing where she’d left him, but Ginny could see Madam Hooch, hands on her hips, watching from the doorway of her office at the end of the changing rooms. The last thing they needed was to be banned from flying, so Ginny glided to a smooth landing next to Neville and gave Madam Hooch a wave.

“Sorry,” Ginny said to Neville, biting her lip as she watched over his shoulder to see if Madam Hooch was going to do anything. When the office door slammed shut, she breathed a small sigh of relief and raised her eyes hesitantly to his. He didn’t look happy. “Sorry, I... just had to get something out of my system. I’m better now.”

“Ginny, you scare me silly when you do stuff like that! What was that all about?”

She scowled, her blood starting to boil again. “Nothing important. But I had to tell Dean that we’re flying.” As Neville started to ask another question, she straddled her broom and motioned for him to do the same. “Let’s not talk about it now. We’ve got work to do. We’re going over the forest today.”

Neville blanched. “Not like that, I hope!”

“No, not like that,” she said with a smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

Adam’s apple bobbing and eyes filled with doubt, Neville followed Ginny into the air. She kept the pace slow compared to what she’d just flown, but pushed Neville a bit faster than they had ever gone before. He looked pale but determined and managed to keep up as they wove their way above the treetops. At one point, Ginny saw Dean standing on the pitch watching them, but he was gone by the time they’d landed and made their way, breathless and exhilarated, into the castle for lunch.

Dean was mysteriously absent the rest of the day and well into Sunday. Ginny knew that they needed to work through their problems. She felt partly to blame. Maybe she shouldn’t have left him to believe what he wanted about Neville. And perhaps she hadn’t been quick enough or firm enough in explaining her feelings to him. Dean _had_ been a good friend and she _had_ put him through a lot... she’d put _all_ of her friends and family through hell. But his words still stung and every time she thought about what he’d said, her anger bubbled to the surface. She couldn’t bring herself to go looking for him, even on Sunday evening after Professor McGonagall had pronounced her fit to play Quidditch.

For some reason, the decision didn’t bring the rush of happiness she’d been expecting. She was glad to have met all of McGonagall’s requirements—that in itself was no small victory after what she’d been through for the past few months. But, as she sat in her empty dormitory room, staring at the Quidditch gear spread on her bed, wrinkled and musty from living in the bottom of her trunk for so long, she felt oddly deflated at the thought of playing again. Not that she would refuse; the team was counting on her. But she couldn’t dredge up any enthusiasm for it either, as if that part of her had died. And she didn’t even have the strength to care.

***

Ginny took three deep breaths to calm her churning insides and knocked firmly on the door. Several interminable minutes passed with no answer; she tried to decide if the fates were for or against her. Dejected, she turned to go, but before she could take a step, the door swung open.

“Weasley?” Madam Hooch’s voice was neither friendly nor hostile, but Ginny threw back her shoulders anyway to prepare for the battle that was sure to come.

“G-good afternoon.” Ginny gritted her teeth and willed away the quiver in her voice before continuing. “I’ve come for permission to fly.”

Madam Hooch stuck her head further out the door and made a show of looking around. “Where’s Longbottom?”

“He’s not here.” Ginny concentrated on keeping her hand from trembling as she held out the two pieces of parchment crumpled in her fist. “Profess— _Headmistress_ McGonagall has given permission for me to play Quidditch. I’d like to do some warm-up flying before practice.”

Madam Hooch ignored the papers. “Yes, she told me. I think it’s a bloody mistake, only she didn’t ask for my opinion, now did she? But I see no reason for you to fly on your own. The team has standing permission for practices and games. You can wait for them.” With a firm nod of her head, she stepped back and started to shut the door.

“Wait!” Ginny threw out her hand to keep the door from closing. She couldn’t keep the pleading tone from her voice. “Please… they’ve been practicing for nearly a month without me and I… I need some time alone to get caught up… to make sure that I’m ready.”

Madam Hooch narrowed her eyes; Ginny squared her shoulders again and plunged ahead.

“I know that I’ve done some... that I’ve made some mistakes. But I’m better now, and I’m trying to… it’s just… everyone seems to think I should play Quidditch... that it will help… but I don’t know if I can still… Please, I don’t want to let them down… not again. Please, let me fly before the team comes down. I promise, I’ll stay within the boundaries of the pitch and I won’t fly higher than the goals… please…”

Eyebrow cocked, Madam Hooch gave her a Basilisk glare. Ginny’s stomach knotted dangerously and she swallowed hard, but she refused to let herself look away. Seconds became eternity before Madam Hooch’s hand shot out for the two pieces of parchment. She skimmed the note from McGonagall, then grabbed a quill from the table by the door and scribbled her initials on the permission form. As she passed it back to Ginny, her glare became even more intense. “One wrong move—just one—and I’ll confiscate that fancy broom in two seconds flat. Do you understand?”

Ginny nodded as she snatched the papers quickly and backed out of reach before Madam Hooch could change her mind. “Yes, I understand. Thank you.”

The door slammed shut and Ginny clutched the form to her chest, willing her heart back to a normal rhythm as she turned and raced for the pitch.

Grabbing a practice Quaffle from the changing room, she stood for a few moments at the base of the goal posts, savoring the feel of the worn leather in her hands, filling her lungs with icy air, listening to her Quidditch memories echoing through the crystal silence that only ever existed on the coldest winter days.

Her mind traced her path to this point. She’d once fought for the chance to be here. She’d once dreamed of flying on a professional pitch, traveling the world as a Chaser wearing dark green Harpies gear… Where had that dream gone?

With an irritated growl, she pushed the melancholy thoughts away—Merlin knew, she’d gone way over her quota of them months ago.

Flexing the cold from her fingers, she pulled her new Chaser’s gloves from her pocket and admired the way they molded to her hands. The surprise gift had come just this morning from Ron, of all people.

Last night, when Hermione had run up to the dormitory for a moment before walking him to McGonagall’s office, he’d pulled Ginny aside and stammered through a mangled apology for the way he’d treated her over Christmas, especially for the way he’d showed her the _Prophet_ story. He’d seemed so sweet and sincere with his ears blazing bright Gryffindor red, that she’d hugged him before he could finish, assuring him that she felt no need to forgive him—in her mind he’d had every right to be angry with her. He’d seemed quite relieved and had returned her hug with more affection than he’d ever openly shown to her.

Ginny had suspected Hermione’s hand in the apology, but when the gloves arrived with the morning post owls, Hermione had seemed surprised: “Well, he finally got round to it, did he? He never said what he’d done, other than be a regular prat, but it’s been bothering him for weeks. I thought I ought to let him work it out for himself.”

Ginny ran her gloved hands over her cheeks, relishing the feel of the supple leather. They had to have cost a month’s wages, but they were nothing compared to having the rift with Ron healed... even if she didn’t deserve it.

Heaving a determined breath, Ginny clutched the Quaffle tightly and kicked off. She had only an hour before practice and she needed to get into the air to see if she could do this on her own before anyone came down to watch her make a complete fool of herself. No doubt, Madam Hooch would be keeping an eye on her, so she was certain she’d have no chance to fly away with the fairies again, but Ginny needed to be sure she could still handle the Quaffle. Her last performance had been a miserable failure and she wasn’t convinced anything had changed.

She started slowly, making several steady circuits of the pitch with the Quaffle nestled in the crook of her arm to get the feel of flying with one hand again. After she passed the goal nearest the changing rooms for the third time, she veered in a straight line down the center of the pitch, tossed the Quaffle at the other center ring… and missed by a wide margin. With a scowl, she dug her wand out of her pocket, Summoned the Quaffle, then headed back to the opposite goal to try again.

After six tries, she finally put the ball through a hoop and pulled her broom to a stop to catch her breath. Frowning, she puffed absently at a strand of hair that had escaped from the woolly hat pulled tightly over her ears and tried to work out what she was doing wrong. Her timing was off. Maybe if she sped up a bit... Drawing her wand, she retrieved the Quaffle and flew toward the opposite goal. With her mind going over the corrections she needed to make, she simultaneously tried to steer the broom with her knees, hang onto the Quaffle, and jam her wand back into her pocket—the wand didn’t cooperate. She watched it tumble end over end to the pitch.

The sight stopped her cold; she’d lived this scene before.

The world suddenly began to fade around her. Dropping the Quaffle, she seized her broom handle with both hands and closed her eyes. As the wave of blackness receded, she made a slow descent to the ground and dropped to her knees, bending over to bury her forehead in the frozen grass to wait for the earth to right itself. _I can’t do this again… I can’t do this again…_ The chant started in her brain without prompting as she drew in great gasps of air to clear her head.

With shaky arms, she pushed herself upright, then let out a gravelly groan. Madam Hooch was striding purposefully toward the pitch. Grabbing her wand from the grass, Ginny scrambled to her feet.

“I’m okay. Just dropped my wand,” she called, waving it in the air and Summoning the Quaffle as she straddled her broom and kicked back into flight before Madam Hooch could stop her.

Once she reached the opposite end of the pitch, she hovered before the hoops to carefully pocket her wand and steal a glance at Madam Hooch, who was still standing under the other goal with her hands on her hips. Ginny gave no sign that she knew she was being watched as she made several slow circuits of the hoops, widening the perimeter with each pass and drawing deep even breaths to clear her head and steady her hands.

“I’m okay… I’m okay… I can do this… I can do this…” she mumbled to herself. The flashback had taken her by surprise, but her quick recovery sent a thrill of victory through her. She really _was_ okay… she really _could_ do this. With renewed determination, she threw the Quaffle through the center hoop, then, without thinking, flattened against her broom to catch it on the other side. She snagged it with ease and circled the hoops several times again before taking another shot and zooming down to catch the ball before it hit the ground.

Before long, she had established a rhythm: circle, shoot, catch, circle, shoot, catch… Her motions grew more sure with each round and she began to vary her flight and throwing angles, gradually increasing the difficulty of each shot and whipping past the goal to catch the Quaffle whether it went through the hoop or not. Eventually, she began lobbing the ball into the air and zooming after it—effectively passing it to herself—before taking a shot. She was soon making passes up and down the pitch, maneuvering smoothly around imaginary opponents at top speed, to take shots at the goals on both ends of the field.

She was vaguely aware of Madam Hooch still watching her, but Ginny’s focus had narrowed to the repetition of her movements, the feel of the Quaffle, the wind in her ears—her body had become one with her broom and the world had been pushed to the edges of her mind. She felt relaxed, clear-headed, peaceful... as if she’d entered a different dimension.

“Giiiin-nyyy!”

Ginny pulled to a stop and looked down at Dennis Creevey waving both arms to get her attention. She had the feeling it wasn't the first time he’d called her name.

“Team meeting’s starting. You coming?”

“Already?” Where had the time gone? She angled her broom downward and eased to a stop beside him.

He had a grin that threatened to touch both ears. “So, McGonagall said you could play. That’s awesome!”

Ginny couldn’t help but return the smile and nod. “Yeah. I just hope I can keep up.”

“Oh, no worries!” His confidence wasn’t as contagious as his smile.

As she stepped through the door, Demelza, the other Chaser, jumped up to give Ginny a hug and the rest of the team called enthusiastic greetings. In spite of the warm welcome, Ginny felt a definite chill in the air that had nothing to do with the bits of ice thawing around the edge of her hat... Dean paused only briefly at the interruption to give her a stiff nod before launching back into his pre-practice lecture. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected, especially after their argument, but the shuttered expression on his face was disconcerting. She tried to listen attentively, but the serenity from her warm-up was slipping away and she began to wonder if agreeing to play had been a colossal mistake after all.

Once they were in the air, however, Dean was all business. He didn’t ignore her as she’d half expected; he treated her just like all of the other players. But that was the problem—he treated her just like all of the other players. Gone was the extra bit of warmth in his tone and the special smile that she’d never realized until now he’d always reserved just for her. She squashed the hollow feeling of despair that had begun building in her chest and turned her concentration back to the training drills. She could deal with her personal life later.

Apparently the weeks of watching practice, even with little attention, had paid off. Ginny slipped easily into the routines, and soon the three Chasers were reading each other with the same fluid synchronization they’d established last autumn (the disastrous Slytherin match, notwithstanding). As long as Ginny focused on flying and passing and shooting goals, Dean seemed no different than usual.

But once practice was over and they were back on the ground, she couldn’t avoid the fact that things were very different. After dismissing the team, Dean marched straight back into the changing room without another word to anyone. Obviously sensing the tension, the other players were unusually quiet as they stowed their gear. Smiling tightly at their murmured “glad to have you backs,” Ginny waited anxiously by her locker for them to leave. She needed to talk to Dean before he got away; they had to settle this so things could return to normal. Even though she believed she had just as much right to be angry as he did, she couldn’t seem to build up the steam to fuel her emotions. She just wanted her friend back.

Dean gave no sign that he noticed that she’d hung back. Keeping his head down as he made some final notes for the next practice, he finally shoved them into his locker with a bang. The noise startled her from her reverie. He turned toward the door and, with only a flicker of a grimace, kept his eyes straight ahead as if he hadn’t seen her.

“Dean...” Ginny couldn’t help the pleading note in her voice. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, but didn’t turn. “Dean, I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t!” His voice broke on the word. He cleared his throat and continued without turning around. “Just don’t… I know I’m thick, but I finally get it. Friends. That’s all you want.” He made a sound that twisted Ginny’s heart, like a strangled whimper of pain. “Problem is,” his gravelly voice continued after several long moments, “I’m not sure I can be friends... at least not... maybe not for a while.” He let out a long ragged breath. “I... I’m glad you’re better and that you’re back on the team. I just... it’s best if we just keep it at that, yeah?”

A fat tear rolled down her cheek, as he stood immobile, staring at the door, probably waiting for her to say something. She wanted to protest, to sooth the hurt from his voice, to hug the dejection from his shoulders... but she couldn’t. He was right. And he had every right to walk away if he wanted more than she could give.

After a long moment of silence, he opened the door and closed it behind him with a soft click.

***

The shadows of depression and overwhelming sadness that Ginny had managed to keep at bay for nearly two weeks began to creep back in. She searched her mind endlessly to work out what she’d done to muck things up so badly with Dean, but as she went back through their relationship, she had to wonder why he’d hung around as long as he had... she’d been horrible to him. How could he possibly have built up hope for anything more than friendship? Why would he have even wanted to? Had she unconsciously sent the wrong signals? Even with six brothers, she evidently didn’t know as much about boys as she’d thought. But as much as she wanted to set things right, she couldn’t be what Dean wanted and apparently didn’t know how to give less without hurting him.

Ever the good friend, Hermione assured Ginny that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that she just needed to give Dean some time and space. Even Lavender (when Parvati had gone to the loo) had agreed that she didn’t think Ginny had led Dean on and that it was his problem, not hers. Nothing they said did much to assuage Ginny’s guilt, but she also refused to allow herself to sink back into the pit of despair. She’d come too far to go back there.

The only time she and Dean ever interacted directly anymore was on the Quidditch pitch where everything seemed perfectly normal between them. Dean was, apparently, a master of compartmentalization. But off the pitch, he obviously avoided her and she felt compelled to accommodate him; life became absurdly awkward and uncomfortable as they continually danced out of each other’s way. She quickly grew tired of always having to be aware of where he was (without actually looking at him) and found it easier to spend her time studying on her bed or at isolated tables in the library… or flying.

She spent every spare minute she could find in the air. It was the only place that she felt peaceful and free. Hermione had likened Ginny’s description of the sensation to Muggle ‘mediation’ or ‘meditation,’ or some such—an activity where they focused on something so intensely that they “moved into a deeper state of relaxation or awareness.” Dennis Creevey called it “getting into her zone.” Ginny didn’t have a name for it. She just knew that when she was in the air, focused on passing the Quaffle and putting it through the hoops, the rest of the world fell away and all of her troubles with it.

By the time Friday rolled around, Ginny was anxious for the weekend—Hogsmeade weekend—to start. Dean had given the team a break from practice for the day (Parvati “let slip” that he was taking Lisa) and Ron was coming to take Hermione for the outing and to Professor Slughorn’s dinner party afterward. Ginny was perfectly content to be excluded from both events... it meant she could wander the castle halls with far less scrutiny than usual and fly for hours on end. She couldn’t wait.

The Great Hall was sparsely populated when Ginny and Hermione settled themselves at the far end of the Gryffindor table early on Friday morning. Ginny chose to sit with her back to the door and pulled out her Muggle Studies book for some last minute revising while Hermione sat across the table and looked over Ginny’s Charms essay.

“Ginny, this is very well done,” Hermione sent a quick smile across the table as she marked a correction. “Your writing has really improved.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Thanks to you and your potion. It helps to be able to form a coherent thought.”

Hermione just hummed absently as she finished skimming the end of the essay, then rolled up the parchment and handed it across the table. “You have a nice way with words. I think you should consider a career in writing… maybe as a journalist or something.”

“A journalist. Right.” The sarcasm in Ginny’s voice was thick. “ _That’s_ a noble profession. I’ll get down to the _Prophet_ and put in my application straight away.”

Hermione winced as she realized what she’d said, but her eyes quickly took on a mischievous glint. “Well, at least that way, you could be sure they made up only good lies.”

Ginny pulled a face at her and buried her nose back into her book as the Great Hall began to fill with students. She surfaced only briefly when the owls flew in and went immediately back to her reading when she didn’t see Homer or Greda among the flock. When the surrounding chatter ratcheted up several notches, she tuned it out with practiced ease and concentrated on the page as she nibbled on a slice of toast.

“Oh, no!”

Ginny’s head shot up at Hermione’s plaintive whisper. All she could see was the back page of the _Daily Prophet_ in front of Hermione’s face.

“What?”

Hermione snapped the paper down, folded it, and jammed it into her bag. “Come with me. Now!” she said in an undertone. Her voice brooked no argument or question.

Hermione was already halfway to the door by the time Ginny had shoved her book into her bag and scrambled to catch up.

“Hermione, wait! What’s—”

“Not here. Just walk.”

The clipped tone sent chills through Ginny’s bones. Something was dreadfully wrong… something that Hermione had seen in the newspaper. Ginny suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Hermione’s pace never slowed as they pushed their way through the incoming throngs of students, up two flights of stairs, and into Myrtle’s bathroom. Trembling with terror, Ginny leaned back against the door and drew several tight breaths as Hermione paced furiously before her. Thankfully, Myrtle was nowhere in sight.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Ginny finally rasped out.

Hermione stopped. “No!” The word came out in a surprised yelp. She ran a hand over her face and softened her voice. “No, he’s not dead. But he might bloody well wish he were by the time I get through with him. And Fleur will finish the job and dismember the body.”

Ginny couldn’t bring herself to smile at the attempted humor. “What is it, then?”

With a sigh and a worried frown, Hermione pulled the newspaper from her bag and held it out. “It is bad. Just in a different way. I didn’t want you to see it in there... not in front of everyone.”

Ginny stared at the paper for several long moments before she could force her trembling hand to reach for it. It crackled loudly as she slowly unfolded it. She slid silently down the door when the room tipped beneath her.

Her heart froze in mid-beat as she watched Harry, framed in a snowy window, wrap his arms around a dark-haired beauty who seemed to be wearing the shirt that should’ve been covering his bare chest. Ginny futilely tried to draw air into lungs that no longer worked as the girl turned in his arms and stretched to kiss him… as his hand covered her bum and pulled her hips tightly to his… as he returned the kiss with heated passion… as he stroked his hand up her side, pulling the shirt higher to reveal nothing but skin along the length of her hip. Unable to tear her eyes away, Ginny watched the photo loop over and over. She could hear the blood rushing through her ears, sense the clammy chill that had coated her skin, feel the churning and twisting in her stomach, but some part of her seemed to completely detach from her own body, as if she were watching the scene from across the room.

“Are you okay?” Hermione’s slightly panicked voice sounded distant, even though she was kneeling only inches away. “Ginny? Say something. Are you okay?”

Ginny closed her eyes and laid her head back against the door. “I’m fine,” she whispered and held the paper out to Hermione. “Read it. I can’t…”

Hermione took the paper. “Are you sure? We can—”

“Just read it!” Ginny said impatiently without opening her eyes, then added a bit more softly. “Please. I’m fine. I... I need to know…”

The paper rustled as Hermione straightened it. “ _Harry Potter Steals Away With New Love…_ ” Her voice faltered a bit, but she cleared her throat and bravely pushed forward. “ _The Saviour of the Wizarding World traveled to Russia two weeks ago as the guest of Bulgarian Quidditch star Viktor Krum to watch the Eastern European Quidditch Exhibition Tournament. What caught his eye, instead, was celebrated Russian singer Katya Belova, who seems to have stolen the heart of Britain’s hero. The two met at_ …” Ginny heard the sound of pages turning, then Hermione’s growl of irritation. “More pictures… _The two met at a Ministry dinner and became inseparable over the remaining days of the tournament, making no effort to hide the very physical nature of their affair. At the closing ceremonies, to the surprise of everyone, Mr. Potter used a passionate farewell kiss to disguise his intentions to whisk her away with him as he Portkeyed out of the country with the Bulgarian team. Russian Ministry officials are outraged and demanding the return of Miss Belova, whom they claim has been kidnapped. But other sources report that the happy couple has…_ oh, no… that can’t be true… he wouldn’t…”

Ginny opened her eyes to find Hermione, pale-faced, staring at the paper in horror.

“What?” Ginny’s voice was barely audible.

Hermione gave her a look of dismay. “I... you don’t—”

“I’m going to find out one way or the other, whether I want to or not.” Ginny gritted her teeth and clenched her hands in her lap. “Just read it.”

With a steadying breath, Hermione recited the rest without taking her eyes from Ginny. “The happy couple has set up housekeeping together in a flat under a Fidelius Charm in Sofia, Bulgaria. They could not be reached for comment. The British Ministry has declined to make a statement pending further investigation.”

_Set up housekeeping together._

The words rang like a huge, clanging bell in Ginny’s brain, drowning out all other thought, threatening to make her head explode. Violent tremors radiated through her body as it leached cold sweat from every pore. As a wave of blackness washed over her, Ginny dropped her head to the floor, breathing raggedly as she curled in on herself. She was barely aware of Hermione stroking the damp tendrils of hair from her face and whispering soothing words that held no meaning. She felt empty, desolate, as if an arid wind had whirled through her soul and sucked her dry of the tears that would bring relief. 

This was her own fault. She’d known he would find someone else. He was out there, alone... he needed someone. And she couldn’t be what he needed. She’d pushed him away, pushed him to find what he needed somewhere else… with someone else.

Hermione’s voice broke through the numbness—she had to have been talking for several moments before Ginny heard her.

“…stronger now. You can get through this. You can’t let this undo all you’ve worked for over these past weeks.”

Hermione pulled Ginny to a sitting position and held her face so their eyes were just inches apart. “Ginny! I’m not going to let you do this to yourself. This is the _Prophet_. They never get anything right. I’m going to write to Harry right now and sort this out…”

As the words started to make sense, Ginny focused on Hermione’s intense stare. “Hermione, pictures don’t lie.”

The emotionless words sent a look of distress across Hermione’s face. She released Ginny, but didn’t back off. “But you know that’s not like Harry. It can’t be him. Or there’s some other explanation. There has to be. This just doesn’t make sense. He’s—”

“Hermione, please!” Ginny dropped her eyes and her voice. “Please… please don’t get my hopes up. I have to let go.”

Hermione’s eyes were full of sympathy as she offered a hand to help when Ginny began to push herself unsteadily from the floor. Ginny averted her face and waved her away, walking on trembling legs to brace herself over the sink.

“I’m fine,” Ginny whispered, but her tone warned Hermione from further discussion. “I just... I’m fine.”

Hermione’s eyes reflected doubt in the mirror over the sink, but Ginny ignored it as she bent and splashed water on her face and cupped several mouthfuls. She stared at her own pale reflection and faced the awful truth: Harry had found someone else. She had no right to complain. She’d made this bed; she’d have to lie in it.

Wrapping her empty detachment about her like an invisibility cloak, she straightened and turned to Hermione. “I’m fine. We should go to class.”

“Ginny, you don’t have to do this now…” Hermione stepped forward and held out a tentative hand.

Ginny moved away from the touch. She couldn’t do this if she succumbed to pity. Her walls hadn’t been reinforced enough yet.

“I have to do it sometime. I might as well get it over with.” She tried not to look and sound cold, but she knew she’d failed when the crease between Hermione’s brows deepened. “Thank you… for bringing me here… without an audience…” She drew a steadying breath as her words ran out.

Hermione nodded; no further explanation was needed.

Fixing her mask firmly in place, Ginny hefted her bag and opened the door. She could feel Hermione’s concern pounding in waves over her back, but she steadfastly ignored them, along with all of the speculative looks and not-quite-whispers that followed her down the hall.

The day went on forever. Ginny was a study in stoicism as she went through the motions of attending classes. Her back remained straight, her mask never faltered.

Her last class had barely finished before she was at Madam Hooch’s door. The look she got was less severe than usual and came with none of the customary caustic remarks. Within moments she was airborne, focused only on the Quaffle and the blessed peace of the freezing wind in her hair, racing beyond the reach of her demons.

She skipped the team meeting and went through practice with single-minded determination that her teammates had the good sense not to question. When Dean signaled the end, Ginny landed and dismounted in a flash, wanting only to find the seclusion of her bed curtains.

“Ginny!”

At the sound of Dean’s voice, she hesitated for only a second, then continued walking to the castle without acknowledging him. He didn’t call again.

The soft murmurs of her roommates stopped when she opened the door. She went straight to her trunk and escaped to the showers without looking at anyone. The shower room was empty, but she didn’t linger, barely giving the water time to heat properly before she had finished bathing, donned her nightdress, and brushed her teeth. The dormitory room was quiet when she returned, but she could feel the cautious glances following her every move.

Hermione laid down her book and turned on her bed to face Ginny. “I’ve Flooed Ron. We’re not—”

“Yes, you are.” Ginny cut her off with an even tone, carefully keeping her eyes on her Quidditch gear as she stowed it in her trunk with unhurried movements. “I won’t have you changing your plans for me. I’m fine.”

Just a couple more minutes and she really would be fine, tucked behind her bed curtains with a silencing charm where she could fight her demons in private.

Only the sound of Ginny’s packing broke the heavy silence. She paid no mind to the looks the others were giving each other. Just one more minute…

“Well, Ginny, you know she’s got to be a slag. Just look at what she’s wearing.”

Ginny froze.

“Parvati!” Lavender hissed.

“What? I’m only trying to hel—”

“Out!” Lavender growled.

Ginny clamped a trembling hand to her mouth as Lavender dragged Parvati off with a heated exchange of whispers. The slamming door finally left the room silent again. 

Ginny remained still, eyes closed, drawing careful, shallow breaths in a vain attempt to contain the pressure building in her chest.

“Ginny, are you okay?” Hermione’s hesitant question pulled the plug.

The pain she’d been numb to all day sliced through her. Ginny shook her head, no longer able to hold back the gut-wrenching sob that broke from the depths of her soul. The mournful wail echoed off the walls, followed quickly by another and another. Hermione’s arms came around her and Ginny collapsed into them, heaving guttural moans of misery, on and on and on until she thought she’d been drained of every emotion she’d ever felt.

When the waves finally subsided, leaving shuddering breaths in their wake, Ginny lay in a boneless heap on Hermione’s lap.

“You’ll be fine,” Hermione said in the same soothing tone she’d been murmuring for what seemed hours as she stroked Ginny’s hair. “You’re strong. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Ginny wanted to believe her, but the world looked too bleak, too dark. Standing on the precipice of the bottomless black hole that had no purpose beyond sucking her in, she knew that she had a choice—she could sink willingly into the darkness and never come out, or she could drag herself from the edge to fight minute by minute against the pull.

As she dropped into an exhausted sleep, she knew her choice had already been made.


	29. Small Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time goes on, Ginny claims a number of small victories.

Winter melted into spring and Ginny kept moving one foot in front of the other, getting through each day with varying success. Some days she had to fight with gritted teeth to get from one minute to the next. Other days, she felt somewhat lighter. And, over time, the good days came at least as often as the bad ones. But no matter what was happening or how (relatively) happy she felt, shadows lingered at the edges of her mind, tainting her world with a vague sadness she never seemed to be able to shake.

Her nightmares had returned briefly after the pictures of Harry had first appeared in the newspaper—only now the beautiful woman was kissing Harry as Greyback and Riddle mutilated him. Muttering something about building up tolerances and bloody stupid prats with hormones, Hermione had increased the dosage of Ginny’s potion gradually until she was sleeping comfortably again for at least half the night.

But a potion couldn’t make the world go away. The press had kept the story of Harry’s new love alive for more than a month, endlessly rehashing Harry and Ginny’s relationship and breakup, repeatedly running the same two photos of Harry entering and leaving the apartment building in Sofia, and digging up every shred of information on the mysterious Katya Belova that they could find, including an array of pictures of her on the arms of numerous prominent and powerful European wizards (although no shots remotely as suggestive as the ones with Harry). The press laid the blame for “losing Britain’s hero to a foreign femme fatale” squarely on Ginny’s shoulders.

Harry’s cryptic response to Hermione’s letter hadn’t really helped: _You know you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. It’s complicated. I’ll explain later._

At first, Hermione had tried to convince Ginny that she should wait to hear what Harry had to say before giving up, but Ginny’s listless response was always the same: “pictures don’t lie.” Hermione had quickly let the matter rest.

When Ginny wasn’t escaping her troubles on her broom, she buried herself in her studies. NEWTs were bearing down on them and she had found, since her head had cleared, that she really _did_ care about the outcome after all. She hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do with her life, but she knew it had to be “something meaningful.” With everything she’d been through in the past few years, she needed to feel like she had a purpose in life—she just had no idea exactly what that purpose was.

At this point, she had no hope of earning enough NEWTs to get anything more at the Ministry than clerical work, and she could certainly never do well enough to get into a Healer program at St. Mungo’s. She briefly considered Muggle Relations—the required OWL in Muggle Studies was already in the bag—but she discarded the idea because she couldn’t meet the other basic qualifications listed in the career pamphlet: _enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense of fun_. Unless she did much better than she expected on the exams, she reckoned that she was headed back to the shop with George, which didn’t fulfill her hope for “meaningful” work, but did have its own appeal—she knew she’d at least be safe.

When she allowed herself to think about it, Ginny went into near panic at the thought of leaving the secure environment she’d learned to manage. The end of school would also bring an end to her protected seclusion behind the enchantments of Hogwarts, where, amid the comforting routine of classes and studying and Quidditch practice, she could tune out the whispers and stares of her classmates and ignore the cacophony of the press. But once she moved permanently beyond the school walls, she would be at the mercy of a world she no longer trusted.

As April began, a strange sense of foreboding had settled over her while she was home for the Easter holidays. It started small, just an extra touch of familiar gloom, but by the time she returned to school a heavy melancholia weighed her down, tempting her to hide behind her bed curtains and never emerge. She’d thought at first that it was because Hermione had begun to wean her off of the potion, but when the black haze in her mind began to center on thoughts of Fred, she finally realized what the problem was—the impending anniversary of his death and the end of the war. Even though she’d known it was coming, she hadn’t consciously thought of it for weeks—but her mind and body hadn’t forgotten.

Hermione had received a letter in mid-March asking her to take part in the Victory Day Ceremony on the second of May. The Ministry planned to unveil a massive stone monument, bearing the names of all who had died in both wars, at the gates of Hogwarts. Ginny’s heart had leapt at the thought that Harry might be back for the event—then she’d panicked when she realized he’d probably bring  _her_ with him, even though she’d heard nothing new about them in weeks. But the letter had asked Hermione and Ron to make a few remarks and read a list of names of all of the fallen in Harry’s absence, and Ginny hadn’t been able to decide whether to be disappointed or relieved.

The day of the ceremony dawned grey and misty with a chill in the air that served as a vivid reminder of the Dementor-haze two summers previous. But by the time the students and teachers began making their way from the castle, the sun was valiantly working to clear the gloom, as if the world were once more declaring victory over the dark forces of evil. Thousands of people and magical creatures had already congregated just beyond the front gates where rows and rows of chairs had been set up. When she caught a glimpse of the crowd, Ginny was eternally grateful that Ron and George had come early to escort her and Hermione down the front path. She was certain the press corps couldn’t possibly be as large as it appeared, but even one reporter or photographer was too many in her book, and she had to admit that the media circus would have been much worse if Harry had chosen to come.

She tried to ignore the blaze of camera flashes at their arrival. Many of the reporters called to Ron and Hermione as they walked to the stage, but Ginny could also hear her own name through the chaos. She kept her head down and clutched at George’s arm as they made their way to the seats Mum was saving for them in the section reserved for Order of the Phoenix members and their families. With a sigh of relief, Ginny slipped into the seat in the middle of the row where she could tuck herself away from view between her mother and George. The whole family had come for the occasion, even Charlie, who had Portkeyed from Romania that morning, and Fleur, who seemed extremely uncomfortable in her chair at the end of the row.

Ginny had seen Fleur during the holiday only a month earlier and had been surprised at how large her stomach had grown since Christmas, even though she seemed not to have gained an ounce of weight otherwise. Now, with the baby due any day, Fleur looked as if she’d slipped one of Hagrid’s pumpkins under her robes and was holding it in place with her knees. Bill looked almost angry and Mum kept casting worried looks down the row. The third time in half an hour that Bill helped Fleur waddle stiffly a short distance from the crowd to a nearby grove of trees, Ginny could contain her curiosity no longer.

“Mum,” Ginny whispered as the ceremony was getting underway. “Is Fleur okay?”

“She’s been having contractions off and on since early yesterday… maybe even longer,” her mother muttered back with a grimace as she watched the couple’s progress toward the grove. “She shouldn’t have come, but Bill couldn’t talk her out of it. Oh, good. Poppy’s seen them.”

As Madam Pomfrey made her way through the crowd toward Bill and Fleur, Ginny leaned forward a bit to watch, then snapped back in her chair as a camera flashed in her direction—bloody photographers.

Ginny tried to keep her attention on Minister Shacklebolt’s speech, but she couldn’t help checking on Fleur every few minutes. The look of agony on her sister-in-law’s face was obvious, even at this distance, and Bill looked alternately ready to hit something or deposit his breakfast in the grass as he rubbed Fleur’s lower back. Madam Pomfrey watched over them with her wand held discreetly at her side, ready to act at the first sign of trouble. Ginny was fairly certain the baby was ready to make an appearance, she just hoped it would wait until Bill could get them to St. Mungo’s after the ceremony.

Hermione’s amplified voice broke through Ginny’s shroud of worry. “Harry wanted to be here today…”

Ginny hid a quiet snort—that’s not what his letter to Hermione had said.

“…but even though Voldemort is gone, others like him continue to make our world a dangerous place. Harry is continuing the fight for our freedom and safety, along with so many others who…”

Hermione’s voice faded as Ginny’s mind drifted to thoughts of Harry. The empty ache in her chest throbbed as she remembered what had been happening this time last year—the long months without knowing if he was safe, only to finally see him alive one minute and apparently dead the next. A piece of her had already died when they’d brought Fred to the Great Hall, but watching Hagrid carry Harry’s limp body from the forest had nearly been the end of her. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’d never survive seeing him like that again. Perhaps he’d found someone who could stay strong in the face of his dangerous life—that thought didn’t make her feel any better.

Ginny wrapped her arms around her stomach in a desperate attempt to staunch the fountain of overwhelming despair that suddenly gushed into her chest. Ron and Hermione’s voices created a droning buzz in the back of her mind as they took turns reading the list of war casualties. Names she recognized occasionally caught Ginny’s attention, but she was more focused on the grief that was slicing her in half. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks, but from the sound of the sniffles and soft crying wafting on the gentle breeze, she wasn’t alone in her show of emotion. Her mother’s breath hitched quietly as she tried to contain her sobs and George had buried his face in his hands. Threading her fingers through her mother’s, Ginny reached over and gave George’s arm a squeeze; he grabbed her hand without lifting his head. Ron’s voice cracked badly and he had to make a second effort as he read “Fred Gideon Weasley.” Ginny squeezed the two hands in hers as George and her mother both lost the battle with their tears. When Dad gathered Mum close from the other side, Ginny wrapped her arms around George and they clung to each other through the storm of sorrow.

Just as Hermione read the final name on the list, Ginny heard a different sound that brought her head up in concern.

“ _Mon dieu_!”

Ginny quickly blinked away her tears. Fleur stood under the trees, supported on either side by Bill and Madam Pomfrey, staring down at the soaking wet bottom of her robes.

“Oh, dear!” Mum was on her feet and rushing toward the grove of trees before Ginny could process what was going on.

Dad stood and motioned for the rest of them to follow. “Looks like we’re having a baby.”

Ginny was only vaguely aware of the flashing cameras and the Magical Law Enforcement Officers who were keeping everyone but family away from the scene. Madam Pomfrey had already conjured a stretcher and levitated Fleur onto it by the time they reached her, and Charlie cast a quick silencing shield around the group as Fleur started screaming a vehement stream of French in Bill’s direction—from the look on his face, Ginny didn’t have to guess too hard to work out what she might be saying.

Their parade to the castle was made in solemn silence except for Bill murmuring to Fleur as he trotted alongside the stretcher holding her hand while she panted for breath and screamed in French every few moments.

“I don’t think we have time to get her to St. Mungo’s,” Madam Pomfrey told Bill when they reached the Hospital Wing. “It wouldn’t be safe to use a Portkey at this point and Apparition and Flooing are definitely out of the question. We’d best get her into a bed.” Turning to the rest of them Madam Pomfrey pointed to the line of chairs just inside the door. “Make yourselves comfortable. If my guess is right, this won’t take long. Molly, come along—I could use your help.”

Ginny watched them disappear behind the screen with her heart in her throat as Fleur screamed again, this time in near-perfect English.

“Bill Weasley, if you _ever_ touch me again, I will ’ex off your—”

The sound came to an abrupt halt as someone apparently cast a silencing charm.

Ginny swallowed hard. Fleur sounded like she was in such pain. What if she died? What would happen to Bill and the baby? How could he bear such a loss? How could they all endure another death?

Dad’s quiet chuckle drew her out of her thoughts. She noticed that all of her brothers were looking at him with the same panic and confusion that was surely written on her own face.

“No worries, children,” he said with a smile. “Your mother told me that and more when each of you were born— _much_ more with the twins. Women sometimes say things they don’t mean during the birth, but all is forgotten once the baby is in their arms.”

Ginny gave him a doubtful look and said with fervent confidence, “I’m _never_ having a baby.”

That drew a round of gentle laughter from the men in her life. She scowled at them.

“What? You lot just get to do the fun part. You’ll never have to go through—” she waved her hand at the partition “— _that_.”

At their roar of laughter, she drew her eyebrows into a frown, but couldn’t keep a smirk from tugging at the corners of her mouth. Even Percy was snickering behind his hand, and it warmed her heart to see them all looking so happy after the sadness of the morning. But her moment of joy drained into despair when Charlie wiped his eyes and put a strong arm around her shoulders.

“Aw, come on, Sis. When the right bloke comes along, you know you’ll be begging to make his babies.”

She knew he was teasing, but the words sucked all of the breath from her lungs. The look on her face must’ve told the story; her brothers’s light-hearted mood seemed to run into a brick wall. Ginny shook off Charlie’s arm and walked to the window so they wouldn’t see how hard she was blinking to hold back the tears.

The right bloke _had_ come along and she’d give anything to make his babies one day when she’d had some time to… Oh, who was she kidding? If he showed up now and asked, she’d take him in a heartbeat and be in Fleur’s place in nine months flat. But he wouldn’t show up—she’d pushed him away and he’d found someone else and was probably happily making babies, or at least going through the motions, right this minute…

“I’m sorry.” Charlie whispered in her ear as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “I wasn’t thinking.”

She was tempted to shake him off again, but he felt so strong and comforting, she closed her eyes and laid her head back against his broad chest. Merlin, she was tired all of a sudden.

The awkward silence in the room was broken when the door burst open.

“We got away as quick as we could. What’s happened?” Ron asked breathlessly as he and Hermione rushed in.

Before anyone could speak, the sound of a baby crying and relieved laughter echoed through the room. Everyone turned expectantly toward the screen. A number of long moments later, Mum appeared beside it looking tired and sweat-drenched, but with a huge smile that Ginny wouldn’t have thought possible an hour earlier.

“Well, don’t just stand there staring. Come and meet the newest Weasley,” Mum said.

Charlie gave Ginny a squeeze and bounded off to lead the way. Ginny followed slowly and stood by the edge of the screen watching her family cooing and oohing over the tiny bundle in Fleur’s arms. How unfair could the fates be that they would have this child born on the first anniversary of her brother’s death? Her family should be remembering Fred and all of the others who died on this day. Instead, they looked happier than she’d seen them in… well, in years, actually.

Ginny was surprised by the twinge of jealousy that stabbed at her heart. They were happy. She should be happy, too. But all she could think was that Fred was gone… and Harry was gone… and she was no longer the only Weasley female in generations. She cringed in shame at the last thought—it was totally inappropriate—but that didn’t stave off the overwhelming desire to snatch her family away like a two-year-old spouting a determined “ _mine!_ ” She’d known for months that a girl was coming, but it hadn’t seemed real until now, and watching all of her brothers making funny faces and babbling baby talk (well, except for Percy), she suddenly felt as if she’d lost all of them, too.

“Ginny dear, come closer so you can see.” Ginny fought to smile as her mother waved her over. “Boys, back off now. Give Ginny some room.”

George and Charlie stood aside so she could move in next to Bill at the bedside. Fleur looked exhausted, but seemed to have a truly magical glow that made her look even more beautiful than usual. Wondering irritably if it was Veela blood or motherhood that made Fleur look so good even in the worst of conditions, Ginny schooled her features and peered down into the tiny face buried in the swath of blankets.

Deep blue, unfocused eyes gazed back in what appeared to be deep concentration, given the small crease nestled between two wisps of almost-eyebrows. Chubby cheeks and a nose that looked like it would one day tilt up imperiously like her mother’s framed a rosebud mouth already puckered for kissing. Pale blonde fuzz (with a decided hint of strawberry) dusted the top of her blue-veined, slightly misshapen head and her raw, red skin looked as if it had been dusted with chalk.

Ginny let out a small sigh as her heart melted. “She’s beautiful.”

“You would like to ’old her, no?” Fleur was already shifting the baby in her arms.

Ginny looked up in surprise and took half a step backward. “Oh, no! She’s too tiny. I couldn’t—”

“You will be fine. She will not break. Bill, please…”

Ginny watched in wonder as Bill gently scooped the baby up as if he’d been doing it for years and placed her in Ginny’s arms. She couldn’t believe how small a newborn could be. Teddy had been several months old the first time she’d held him and, now, only a little over a year later he was toddling about so fast they could hardly keep up with him. But this baby was even smaller and much more delicate, as if she would break at the slightest touch. Sinking gratefully into the chair George Summoned for her, Ginny slipped her finger into the baby’s groping hand and sent a brilliant smile around the room as the miniature fingers wrapped around hers in a surprisingly strong grip. The family gave a collective “awwww” of appreciation.

“What name did you finally choose?” Mum asked.

Ginny knew from her mother’s letters that this had been a topic of great debate with a different decision made almost daily for the past couple of months.

“Victoire,” Fleur said with a decisive nod.

Bill’s eyes went wide. “Victoire? I don’t remember that being on the list.”

Fleur gave him a look that clearly said she shouldn’t have to explain this, but she patiently did anyway. “’Ow could we not name her Victoire when she is born on this day? She is a good omen, a sign of ’ope for the future, no?”

Bill smiled and bent to kiss his wife; his adoration was almost too painful for Ginny to watch. “Yes. Victoire. She is our victory.”

Cuddling Victoire close, Ginny dropped a kiss on a chubby cheek and inhaled the heady scent of baby, hoping against hope that the good omen applied to them all.

***

Ginny dreamed of babies… or rather, of one baby with three faces. In her dream, she was reclining against a stack of fluffy pillows on a huge bed, cuddling and kissing a tiny bundle that she knew was her own child; her heart swelled with love and joy like she’d never felt in her life. But each time she pulled back to look at the baby, it looked different. Over and over the faces changed, each familiar and beloved—auburn hair with blue eyes… Weasley-red with brown eyes… and black with green eyes. Even before seeing the third face, she’d had no doubt about who the father was, and she waited impatiently for him to come and cuddle with her and their child… but he never came.

She woke before dawn, blanketed with a heavy sadness. Her arms felt empty and her heart bruised, like an apple used for Bludger practice one too many times. As she lay there, staring bleakly into her canopy, she realized that those babies who had seemed so real, so alive, would never exist—a pang of grief ripped through her as if they had died in her arms.

Flinging open her curtains, Ginny dragged herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The rhythmic breathing of her roommates was the only sound in the room; none of them—even Hermione—would be up for at least an hour. Without stopping to examine the sudden yearning in her heart, Ginny silently slipped on her clothes, left a note for Hermione, and grabbed her bag as she left the room.

Madam Pomfrey had told Fleur that she and Victoire should plan to stay for at least three days, and that Bill should arrange for a car to take them home since traditional Wizarding travel was not recommended for newborns. Fleur’s regular Healer had come late in the day and pronounced mother and baby healthy, and then seconded Madam Pomfrey’s orders.

Ginny was standing at the Hospital Wing doors before it occurred to her to wonder if Fleur and the baby would be awake at this hour. She pushed the door open a crack and listened carefully until she could make out the quiet rumble of voices and the whimpers and coos of the baby behind the screen at the other end of the room. With a smile, Ginny pushed open the door and walked the length of the room, her footsteps echoing softly off the stone walls. The voices had stopped by the time she reached the screen and Bill met her at the edge of it.

“You’re up early, Li’l Bit.”

Ginny scowled at the nickname he’d given her when she was born, but then offered a pleading smile. “I wanted to visit with Victoire again for a little while before class, if it’s okay.”

Bill stuck his head behind the screen for a moment, then pulled it back out to give Ginny a nervous smile; she didn’t take time to wonder why it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just—erm, give us a minute, yeah?”

She nodded and stood aside while Bill disappeared. After a few moments of scuffles and whispers, he reappeared and invited her back.

“Ginny, I am so glad you ’ave come.” Fleur’s smile looked tired but friendly. “Victoire ’as been asking when will she see ’er beautiful Auntie Ginny again.”

Just as Ginny started to laugh at the attempted humor, the Floo in Madam Pomfrey’s office roared to life and then went silent. Ginny didn’t miss the worried look that passed between Bill and Fleur before Fleur slipped her smile back into place and held a hand out in invitation to Ginny.

“You would like to ’old ’er again, no?”

Ginny hesitated for only a moment, wondering at their strange behavior, before remembering why she had come. “Yes, please, if it’s okay?”

At Fleur’s nod, Ginny gathered Victoire into her arms and nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply to fill the void her dreams had left behind. And, suddenly—as surely as if a cauldron of Amortentia had been bubbling in the middle of the room—she knew what their worried look had meant.

Mingled with the sweet scent of baby and milk, she caught a faint whiff of treacle and summer breezes and something so essentially… just so… Harry.

For a moment, she froze, watching the unseen image in her mind: Harry had been right here only moments before, nuzzling Victoire as he’d done so many times with Teddy, looking into her eyes and talking gently to her as if she could understand every word he said, placing soft kisses on her head… Ginny pressed her lips to Victoire’s forehead and imagined she could feel the warm imprint of his still there.

Harry had been here—and he’d left, knowing who was standing just the other side of the screen.

Swallowing hard at the knot in her throat, Ginny kept her head down, murmuring nonsense as she forced her legs to carry her to the rocking chair that someone had Transfigured during the night. As she sank into it, she peeked through her lashes at the bed. Fleur gave Bill a subtle but firm shake of her head; Bill cast a sad glance at Ginny, then went to look out of the window as Fleur sank back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

After a moment, Bill turned toward the rocker. “Gin?”

Ginny schooled her features into an impassive mask before looking up.

“If you’re going to be here for a few minutes, I thought I’d run down to the Prefects Bath and clean up a bit before everyone starts stirring about. Will you be okay?”

Ginny had a feeling he was talking about more than being okay with watching the baby. But no one except Hermione would ever talk to her about Harry, and if they weren’t going to bring him up, she wasn’t either. She nodded woodenly, unconsciously fingering the lightening bolt pendent at her throat. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

And she _would_ be fine. She _had_ to be fine. Like Dean, she’d been a bit thick about hanging onto hope that one day she and Harry could work through their problems and find happily ever after. But now she finally understood—he was finished with her. She’d pushed him too far and she’d never have the chance to tell him how truly sorry she was. Life would go on and she’d be fine… one day.

***

Three weeks after Victory Day, on the Monday following the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match, the first offer arrived.

When the unfamiliar owl perched in front of her at breakfast, Ginny opened the envelope without paying attention to the seal, then nearly choked on her sausage when she read Puddlemere United’s offer of a spot as reserve Chaser. Thankfully, Hermione had her face buried in her Arithmancy book, so Ginny shoved the letter to the bottom of her bag and checked to be sure no one else had noticed.

In hindsight, she realized she should’ve seen this coming. She’d known that several students in Hufflepuff and Slytherin had received such offers after their final match last month—the news had been announced loudly and cheered raucously by housemates.

The Gryffindor–Hufflepuff match in February hadn’t been nearly as close as everyone had anticipated. Even though most of the Hufflepuff team had more experience and their Seeker had easily out-flown Dennis for the Snitch, Ginny’s even dozen goals and the additional dozen she’d assisted Dean and Demelza in making, along with Abercrombie’s incredible performance at Keeper, had sealed the outcome long before the game was over.

The Ravenclaw match this past Saturday had gone even better. Although Ginny had scored only eleven goals, she’d helped set up another fifteen and Dennis had caught the Snitch.

But Ginny wasn’t interested in playing professional Quidditch—it wasn’t the meaningful work she craved—and the last thing she needed while she was preparing for NEWTs was to have her housemates harassing her over the decision.

Ginny was soon thanking her lucky stars for the impending exams that had Hermione scurrying to the library every morning before the mail arrived. In fact, after the second day, Ginny was avoiding the breakfast table herself in an attempt to escape the owls—at least when they found her she could stuff away the envelopes in private so she didn’t have to answer any questions. By Friday, she’d received letters from every team in the league, although she’d stopped opening them after Tuesday when the Cannons had sent an offer for a starting position.

Ginny was never so happy to see the weekend come. Saturday was the last Hogsmeade trip of the year, a final blowout before exams the following week. Hermione was spending the day in the library, much to Ron’s annoyance, although she had reluctantly agreed to let him come for Slughorn’s party in the evening and stay through breakfast on Sunday. Ginny didn’t expect to see much of either of them, and that was fine. She planned to spend the day flying.

Since her near-encounter with Harry, flying had become even more of an escape than before. She couldn’t spend more time in the air—there simply weren’t enough hours in the day for that—but her flying had become more intense as she attempted to elude her demons and keep her head clear.

She spent the first part of Saturday in the library with Hermione (because it was easier than arguing about it), going over and over Potions theory, her weakest subject. But by three o’clock she’d had enough and, firmly ignoring Hermione’s admonitions, headed to the pitch. Madam Hooch initialed the permission slip with only a slight scowl and Ginny was in the air before half three.

The day was glorious. The sun poked the only hole in the fathomless blue sky, while a gentle breeze hinted at the promise of summer.

Ginny left the Quaffle on the ground as she kicked off and flattened against her broom. Waving at Professor McGonagall, who was watching through her window, Ginny circled the Headmistress’s tower three times before swooping to treetop level for a perimeter sweep of the grounds. She slowed in reverence as the top of the black marble war memorial came into view, then accelerated and veered back toward the lake when she saw several camera flashes from the ground—she couldn’t believe they were still watching for her after all of these months. Didn’t they have any real news to cover?

Skimming the surface of the lake, Ginny left a trail of ripples in her wake as she glided past Hogsmeade Station and the landing where the First Years boarded the boats. She was surprised that she was close enough to see the crowds of students wandering up and down High Street, and could even make out a tall, lanky silhouette and a golden head of bouncy curls walking back from the Shrieking Shack together.

Dean and Lisa had been inseparable since February. Ginny had worried about it a bit, not wanting Lisa to be hurt if it was only a rebound romance for Dean. But a brief whispered conversation with Lisa in the library had put Ginny’s fears to rest. Lisa was completely smitten and wanted Dean on any terms, and over the ensuing weeks, he had seemed to realize what a catch Lisa was as well, given their mutual interest in art and her willingness to let him play the attentive gentleman, as Ginny never had.

During the Easter Holiday, Ginny had talked with her mother a bit about the whole thing (Merlin knew, if ever there was an expert on teenage boys, it had to be Mum) and had been relieved to learn that, short of not being friends in the first place, she probably couldn’t have handled things any other way. “Sometimes, you can’t be ‘just friends,’” Mum had said. “When that happens, it’s best to just nip it in the bud and get on with it.” 

Over the course of the Quidditch season, Dean and Ginny had made an unspoken truce and, although she knew they could never be as close as they’d once been, she was relieved that things were beginning to be less awkward between them.

With a wave in Dean and Lisa’s direction, even though they were probably too wrapped up in each other to see her, Ginny turned her broom and sped across the center of the lake, bouncing up and down to send spurts of water splashing up behind her. She buzzed Hagrid’s hut, returning his wave, then threaded through the treetops of the forest at hair-raising speed.

She wound her way back toward the pitch and turned her broom into a shallow dive as the goal posts came into view. Leveling off within arm’s-length of the ground, she hugged her broom and rolled it over, scooping up the Quaffle without slowing her pace, then righted herself, looped around the bottom of the goal, and shot toward the opposite end of the pitch to put the ball dead center through the middle hoop. She zoomed after it and tuned out the world for the next few hours.

The sun had sunk low behind the trees by the time Ginny landed lightly in front of the broom shed and headed toward the castle. A voice coming from the darkness stopped her in her tracks.

“So it’s true. You really are that good. That was quite a show.”

Ginny spun around and squinted into the deepening twilight. She could tell it was a woman, but all she could see was a shadowed outline and the glowing tip of a cigarette held up to the formless face.

“Thanks,” she said cautiously. “And you are—?”

The cigarette flared, then arced in a fading red streak into the night. A plume of pale smoke drifted upward as the woman stepped forward and lit her wand.

Ginny gasped.

“Gwenog Jones,” the woman said, though she really needn’t have. Ginny would’ve recognized the Holyhead Harpies’ captain anywhere.

Ginny had to search for her voice. “Wha—what are you doing here? At Hogwarts? On the pitch?”

Gwenog shrugged. “I came for Sluggy’s supper. I only let myself smoke during the off-season, but Minnie won’t let me have a fag inside. Now, I’m glad I came out here. You’re Weasley, aren’t you?”

Ginny automatically threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. She knew they’d met when Slughorn first came back to Hogwarts, but she was pretty sure Gwenog Jones wouldn’t remember a star struck fifth-year. There was only one way she could know…

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Oh, your reputation precedes you. You’ve made quite the name for yourself, you know.”

With a scowl, Ginny shouldered her broom. “So, you’ve come to gawk at the girl who ran Harry Potter out of England? Don’t you have more important things to do?”

Gwenog chuckled. “I’m not talking about the stuff those rags call news. Don’t you know you’re all the rage among the scouts these days?” At Ginny’s dubious scoff, she laughed again. “Oh, come on! Two two-hundred-point games? Word’s got out. You’re the hottest property around.”

“I didn’t score them all by myself,” Ginny said irritably.

“So I heard. You’re a team player. All the better in my book. I can’t believe no one else has made you an a offer yet.”

Ginny looked off into the night, thinking of the stack of envelopes crushed at the bottom of her book bag. “I’m not interested.”

“Not interested?” Gwenog snorted. “You can play like that and you’re not interested. Girlie, you could pick your team and name your price. Fame and fortune are yours for the asking.”

“I don’t want fame and fortune.” Ginny turned and began walking toward the castle.  “Quidditch isn’t my life.”

Gwenog hurried to catch up and fell into step beside her. “So you don’t want fame and fortune. What _do_ you want?”

Ginny stopped and looked at her. What did she want? She used to know, but she didn’t anymore. When she didn’t speak, Gwenog prompted her again.

“What are your plans after school?”

Ginny looked into the night again, wishing that the newly reborn stars could give her the answer. “I don’t know.” She scrubbed a hand over her face and started walking again. “I want to do something that matters. I just don’t know what that is yet. I reckon I’ll work in my brother’s shop until I figure it out.”

“Why not play Quidditch until you figure it out?” Gwenog asked in a carefully casual tone.

Ginny cocked her head as she considered her answer, unsure about why she was even having this conversation, much less being so open with someone she didn’t know. “You really want to know? Because I’ve had my fill of dealing with the press.”

“Ah, you’re just looking at the negatives. You’ve got to look at the positives.”

“Positives? What positives? They take your life and twist it around until you don’t even recognize yourself. No thanks!”

“Well, you see, that’s the problem. You can’t let them have complete control. You’ve got to make it work for you. You get on their good side, give them what _you_ want them to have, make them _think_ that it’s what they want, and then the world is yours.”

“You sound like my brother’s wife.”

“You should listen to her.”

“But why bother? What’s wrong with living my life like a normal person with no fanfare?”

“Not a thing. But there’s a lot of good that can be done with fame, you know, if you handle it right. Your man figured that one out pretty quick.”

Ginny looked at her in confusion. “My man?”

“Potter.”

Ginny scowled and hurried up the steps to the front doors. “He’s not my man. He’s not my anything.”

Jones hurried to follow her. “He’s the one who made you famous.”

“I’m not famous.”

“Sure you are. Doesn’t matter that you’re not together anymore. You were once, so you’ll always be famous. You might as well make it work for you.”

Ginny stopped at the foot of the stairs and glared at her. “I don’t want to make it work for me. I just want it to _go away_!”

“Well, it won’t. So you need to learn to work it. You said you want to do something that matters. Playing Quidditch, being famous, can help you do that. You can sponsor good causes, get people to give money to your causes, you can do a lot of good things for a lot more people than you’d ever be able to do otherwise.” Gwenog put a hand on Ginny’s arm to stop her going up the stairs. “Come with me to Sluggy’s party and let’s talk.”

Ginny sighed. “Haven’t you heard? I’m out of favor. My invitations keep getting lost.”

Gwenog grinned cheekily. “He won’t run you off if you’re with me.”

With a shake of her head, Ginny gave her a weak smile. “No, I think I’ll pass. But thanks.”

“Well, you think about what I said. And if you change your mind about playing, you come and see me first, yeah?”

Ginny gave a heavy sigh and turned toward the stairs. “Yeah. If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

***

The next morning, Ginny was munching on toast in the Great Hall with her nose buried in her Charms book when Hermione and Ron sat down on either side of her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d had an offer from the Harpies?” Hermione asked without preamble.

Ginny brow creased in confusion. “Where did—” She stopped when she realized where they’d heard and scowled. “I told her I wasn’t interested.”

“What do you mean, you’re not interested?” Ron demanded. “Ginny, this is the _Harpies_. You’ve wanted to play with them forever!”

Ginny shifted in her seat to look squarely at Ron. “Well, I don’t anymore, okay? And I don’t want to talk about it, either. Just let it be.”

“Ginny! Look at all of these. There must be one from every team—and you haven’t even opened them! Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ginny whirled to find Hermione pulling the mangled stack of envelopes from the bottom of her bag.

“Put those back!” Ginny made a grab for the envelopes, sending several skittering to the floor. She and Ron both ducked under the table to collect them and she growled when he snatched one away from her. “Give it back, Ron. There’s no point in opening them. I said I’m not interested and I mean it.”

“This one’s already been opened,” he said, holding it out of her reach as he pulled it from the envelope. His eyes bugged and his jaw dropped. “This one’s from the Cannons… for a starting position! Ginny! A _starting_ position!”

By now, everyone within hearing distance was watching the squabble with avid interest.

Ginny stood and snatched the letter from his hand, then grabbed the other envelopes from Hermione and stuffed them all into her bag. She followed them with her book and stepped away from the table with a glare as she hefted her bag to her shoulder. “I _said_ I’m not interested. _Drop it_!”

Head held high, Ginny stalked from the Great Hall and found an empty classroom on the sixth floor where she could revise in peace until she gave it up as a bad job and went flying for the rest of the day. She managed to avoid having a private conversation with Hermione before bed by dragging out a discussion with Lavender and, surprisingly, Parvati about the fashions and hairstyles in the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_.

After a few days, thinking that Hermione had finally let the matter drop, Ginny had relaxed and fallen back into the rhythm of their friendship.

She should’ve known better… 

 

_A/N: I used this map of Hogwarts for Ginny’s flight.<http://www.hplex.info/atlas/hogwarts/atlas-h-large-map.html>_


	30. Transitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School ends and Ginny begins to face her demons head-on.

On the Sunday morning after exams finished, Ron and George arrived with a basket full of Mum’s bacon sandwiches, fresh bread, marmalade, and apple tarts. They swiped a flask of cold pumpkin juice and some cups from the Great Hall, then herded Ginny and Hermione to the lake for a picnic to celebrate the end of term.

As they lounged on a conjured blanket catching up on news from home and discussing the end of school, George pushed himself up on his elbows to look at Hermione. “So what’s next for you, Granger? Ready to take on the Ministry again?”

Hermione smirked. “Of course. I’ve got a long list of new ideas for improving the quality of life for house-elves and other magical creatures. Of course, it’ll depend on my marks whether or not I qualify for that supervisor position. I keep thinking that I missed something on that last Arithmancy prob— Stop! Stop!” She squealed and ducked behind her arms as George and Ginny sent a barrage of leftover bread crusts at her and Ron poked her in the ribs.

“Give it up, Hermione, you know you got perfect marks,” Ginny said. “I’m the only one here who has to worry about getting good enough marks to find a decent job.”

George flopped back onto the blanket with his hands behind his head and stared into the leaves overhead. “So what _are_ you going to do now, sister mine?”

Ginny eyed him warily. He sounded a bit too much like he and Fred used to just before they pulled a prank.

“Dunno. I want to do something meaningful, but unless I did better on the exams than I think, I won’t be able to get a very good job with the Ministry.”

“You could probably get a clerical position in my department,” Hermione said. She sounded a bit too nonchalant for Ginny’s comfort, too.

“Thanks, but pushing paper doesn’t sound like something I could do for more than a week without going completely mental—and we all know how well _that_ works for me. I reckon I’ll just have to work at the shop until I find something better.”

George snorted. “Aside from the fact that there _is_ no better place to work, I’m afraid we have no openings right now.”

Ginny bolted upright. “What?”

George calmly continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “With Ronnikins leaving for the Auror Academy at the end of the month and the new shop in Hogsmeade opening in August, I had to go ahead and get my staff organized, you know. I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Sis.”

“No!” she sputtered. “You can’t... but I was counting on... what am I supposed to do now?” she finished with a wail.

George put a finger to his chin as if he were seriously considering her question, but Hermione looked a bit too innocent and Ron had hidden his face in her hair. Ginny had the sick feeling that she’d just sprung whatever trap they’d set for her.

George sat up and turned to face her. “Well, actually, I do have a thought. I’ve decided to take on a new business venture that might interest you.” With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a small white card and presented it to her with a flourish. “My card.”

Ginny eyed him skeptically before reading the elaborately embellished flashing multi-colored type:

_George F. Weasley_

_Sports Agent, Extraordinaire_

She knew now what he was up to, but decided to play along. With an indelicate grunt, she smirked at him. “Sports Agent, Extraordinaire. What the bloody hell does that mean?”

Puffing out his chest, George gestured grandly with his arms. “Why I’ll be representing the business interests of professional sports wizards and witches—you know, contract negotiations, endorsement opportunities, that sort of thing. And all for a nice percentage of their earnings. This has the potential to be more profitable than 3W.”

Unimpressed, Ginny cocked an eyebrow at him. “So who are you representing?”

“Oh, you know, competitive duelers, Gobstones teams, broom racers…” He gave her a sly leer. “…Quidditch players.”

“Right,” Ginny handed back the card and got to her feet. “Let me know how that works out for you. I’m going flying.”

Before she could take two steps, her feet stuck to the ground and her wand flew from her pocket into George’s hand.

“George! You let me go, right this minute!”

He jumped up and stood in front of her, stepping out of reach as she took a swing at him. “But you haven’t let me finish my sales pitch. I can’t get this new venture started without recruiting my first client, can I?”

“I don’t need an agent.” She cast a glare at Ron and Hermione. “I’m not playing Quidditch, no matter what they say.”

George dropped his bantering tone and his expression grew serious. “Just hear me out, Gin. Please. No one is going to force you to do something you don’t want to do, but we care about you. Just talk to us… please?”

Ginny stared at him for several long moments. He wasn’t playing fair. He knew she couldn’t say no when he had that look on his face, the one that made her feel like she was the most important person in the world. She huffed out an annoyed breath, mostly to keep up appearances but partly because she knew she was doomed—she’d jump off the Astronomy Tower if he asked her like that.

“All right! Fine!” she said in her most exasperated voice. “I’ll give you five minutes. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

George’s face split into a grin. “Brilliant! Now, as I was saying—”

“Erm, do you mind?” Ginny tugged on one foot and gave him a questioning look. “I think I’m going to need to sit down for this.”

“Oh, yes.” He flicked his wand to release her but shook his head when she held out her hand for her wand. “No, I’ll hang onto it for a bit. At least until I’m sure you’re not angry with me any longer.”

Ginny tilted her nose at a haughty angle as she sank gracefully to the blanket. “Guess you’ll be keeping it for a while then.”

He chuckled merrily and sat down beside her. Dropping smoothly back into full-on presentation mode, he cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…”

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him.

“As you’re my first client—” he waggled a finger to stop Ginny’s protest “—nah-ah… you can have your say when I’m finished.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him again.

He nodded approvingly. “As you’re a new client—or if it makes you feel better, ‘hypothetical client’—” He grinned when Ginny relaxed a bit. “—I would have to do a bit of research on your qualifications and options before I could negotiate properly on your behalf. I saw your last two matches, so I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re by far the best Chaser money can buy.” Ginny rolled her eyes. “But these...” He reached into his pocket and brought out a tiny square that, once enlarged, looked suspiciously familiar. “...these are the Golden Snitches of opportunity that have the potential to make you—us—rich.”

Ginny rounded on Hermione. “You nicked my letters!”

Hermione shrugged as Ron smiled at her proudly. “I’m planning to return them, so, technically, I just borrowed them.”

“But you had no right! They’re—”

George cleared his throat loudly. “AS I WAS SAYING…”

Ginny glowered at Hermione, but fell silent.

George studied a sheet of parchment with his illegible scrawl covering every inch. “According to my research, your stock is running quite high on the Quidditch market at the moment, with every team in the league making a bid for your talents. I’ve ranked the offers based on salary, position, and contract options. Puddlemere, Tutshill, Holyhead, and, surprisingly, the Cannons appear to be the top four contenders for your hand. As the current league leader, Puddlemere has offered the highest salary—they’ve got more Galleons to play with—but the offer is for a spot on the second reserve team with only a one-year contract and no future-year options. The Tornadoes and Harpies are about even on salary, and not significantly below Puddlemere. They’ve both offered first-reserve spots and one-year contracts with comparable options for additional years based on performance.” George looked up from his notes. “Are you with me so far?”

Ginny blinked and nodded, trying to wrap her mind around the surreal information racing through her head. These were _professional_ Quidditch teams—and they seriously wanted _her_. She’d known that, but somehow, hearing George say it made real.

“All right, then,” George went on. “The Cannons are the wild card in the bunch. As one might expect, the salary is close to the bottom of the barrel, since that’s where they’ve been in the league for years.” He ignored Ron’s outraged protest. “But the offer of a starting position _and_ a guaranteed two-year contract gives them enough extra points to put them in contention.”

Ron folded his hands under his chin and turned pleading eyes on Ginny, mouthing _pleasepleasepleaseplease_ until George whacked him on the back of the head.

“Now, as your hypothetical agent, my first move would be to contact each of these teams and see how much more they’d be willing to put on the table so you could make an informed decision. However, because you’ve already entered into a verbal—although not necessarily binding—agreement with the Harpies for right of first refusal—” George held up a hand to stop Ginny’s surprised denial and frowned at Ron’s groan of despair “—hypothetically, of course, I would be bound to contact them first. And, because their salary offer really wasn’t _too_ shabby, I would, hypothetically, make a counter proposal that included a one-year contract with a guaranteed second year at _your_ discretion, a minimum of six hours playing time per year as a reserve to be spread throughout the season, and a fifty-percent salary increase if you were to be moved to the starting team at any point during those two years. Oh, and—hypothetically, of course—they jumped at it.” He got a pensive look on his face. “I wonder if I should’ve asked for seventy-five percent and a three-year contract?”

Ginny’s jaw fell open. “You’ve already talked to them?”

He looked shamelessly pleased with himself. “Hypothetically… of course.”

She snapped her mouth shut and gave a decisive shake of her head. “No! I told you I don’t want to play.”

Ron threw up his hands. “But _why_? Even if you’re going to discount a _starting position_ with the Cannons—” Ron sent a disgruntled grimace toward George before turning back to Ginny “—you’re good! You’re _really_ , _really_ good. Why _wouldn’t_ you want to do something you’re that good at?”

“I’ve told you. It’s just a game. I want to do something that matters.”

“But, Ginny…” She recognized Hermione’s voice of reason and cringed. “You don’t _know_ what you want to do, and you need to do _something_ until you work it out. Why not play Quidditch? After all, you really are very good at it, and it’ll bring you an excellent salary so that when you _do_ decide what you want to do, you’ll have some savings to fall back on if you need it.”

Ginny turned to stare out over the lake, flexing her jaw in irritation. Why wouldn’t they understand? Or at least just accept her decision?

“What’s the real reason, Gin?” George was serious again.

She refused to look at him. “That _is_ the real reason.”

“All right, then, what’s the _other_ reason… or reasons?”

She pulled her knees to her chest and dropped her head onto them. Damn George. He knew her entirely too well. She didn’t want to get into this with them. They’d have an answer for anything she said and she just didn’t want to get dragged into something she couldn’t handle… didn’t _want_ to handle. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Obviously, they weren’t going to let her go until they’d wrung her completely out.

George finally nudged her with his foot. “Well, come on, then. Out with it.”

“Fine!” She lifted her head to shoot daggers at each of them with her eyes. “I just want a normal life. I want to be able to walk about Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade or anywhere I want to go without having to hide from vultures who earn their living by effing up my life. I’ll never have that if I play Quidditch. And if you lot were really as clever as you think, you’d have worked that out on your own.”

Ron and George looked at Hermione, apparently not surprised by the explanation and designating her as spokesperson for this round. Ginny stiffened, waiting for the inevitable logic... but her fears weren’t logical and no argument would dispel them.

With a sigh, Hermione gave Ginny a sympathetic look. “I wish it were that simple to live a normal life. I meant to talk to you about this anyway after exams were finished. Even if you don’t play Quidditch, the press… well, they’re not going to go away... at least not for a long while… most likely. You’re...” she cast a nervous glance at Ron and George “You’re tied too closely to Harry.”

Ginny’s stomach twisted violently. “But... but... that’s rubbish! Harry and I... we’re... he’s... it’s over. How can they keep on about the two of us when we’ve not seen each other in months? It’s not fair!”

“You’re right.” Hermione gave Ginny’s hand a squeeze. “It’s _not_ fair. But you’ve both been so… inaccessible. That’s what makes you so valuable to them. A story or picture of either one of you is a high-priced commodity, whether there’s any truth in it or not. People want to read about you. You sell newspapers and magazines.”

Ginny felt the shadows descending as the knot in her stomach tightened. “So I’m going to be literally hiding for the rest of my life?”

“Well, maybe not the _rest_ of your life” Hermione said with a smile that quickly turned sad. “But perhaps for a year or two, at the very least. _Especially_ if you try to hide.”

“You have to learn to play the game,” Ron said. “I can’t guarantee they’ll do the same for you—not at first, anyway—but they’ve not bothered Hermione and me so much since we started letting them take a few pictures and ask a few questions whenever we’re out. Once we give them a bit to take back to their editors, they usually back off and we can go about our business in peace… most of the time anyway. You just have to ignore the outrageous lies and keep in mind that the people who care about you know the truth and nobody else really matters.”

Ginny clutched her middle and bent nearly double, hiding behind the curtain of her hair as she tried to fight against the memories of her last Hogsmeade weekend—roaring chaos and blinding flashes as she huddled in terror on the street until Harry had come to her rescue. She hadn’t played the game well at all then, and months had passed before she had been able to pull out of the dark depression she’d fallen into. Harry wouldn’t be there to save her next time… or any time ever again. She’d be on her own against the vultures.

Ginny raised her head and allowed Hermione to see the fear in her eyes; she couldn’t make her voice rise above a whisper. “What if I can’t do it? What if I go back… _there_ , again?”

Hermione instantly closed the distance between them, gripping Ginny’s shoulders almost painfully. “We won’t let that happen. I’ve already written to Fleur; she’s willing to train you. You weren’t ready last autumn, but you’re stronger now. You can do this. You know you can.”

Ginny drew several deep breaths to ease her churning stomach and nodded. “Yes. I can do this. I’m better now.” She knew she was trying to convince herself more than anyone, but it helped that they all nodded encouragingly.

Hermione settled back beside Ron and the tension that had coiled through the group slithered off.

“I’ll owl Fleur today to see when we can get started,” Hermione said. “She was really excited about helping. I think she was a bit bored the last couple of months of her pregnancy, and now that she’s got the baby into a regular schedule, she’s thinking about getting back to work.”

Ginny smiled weakly at Hermione’s blatant attempt to make it sound like they’d be doing Fleur a favor, but it was a nice gesture and almost did the trick.

“So what about Quidditch?” George was using his serious brother voice again. “If you’re going to have to face the press anyway, you might as well do something you love while you’re at it. Besides, if you stop doing things because of them, aren’t you letting them win?  If you don’t want them running your life, then you can’t stop living it because of them. What do you say? Will you at least think about it?”

Ginny dropped her face into her hands. They’d done it. They’d blown away all of her arguments. She had nothing left to fight them with but pure Weasley stubbornness. Groaning a heavy sigh of defeat, she looked up at George.

“I suppose I could think about it.”

The smile that lit his face would’ve brightened a gloomy day. He fell immediately back into his sales pitch, whipping two scrolls of parchment from his pocket and spreading them on the blanket before her. “Right, then. Just sign on these dotted lines, and the two of us will be well on our way to creating the Weasley Quidditch Dynasty.

“This—” he pointed at the shorter scroll “—officially makes me your agent at the bargain price of five percent of all of your earnings, including, but not limited to, salaries, bonuses, endorsement deals, and tournament winnings. You’re getting a steal of a deal here, Sis. Most agents command at least ten percent.”

Ginny eyed him warily and pointed at the other parchment. “And that one?”

“That, Madam Chaser, is your contract with the Harpies.”

“George,” Hermione said thoughtfully as she scanned the documents over Ginny’s shoulder. “Would it be possible to include a clause in the Harpies’ contract that says she doesn’t have to answer personal questions during interviews in support of the team? Maybe something like all questions have to be Quidditch-related or Ginny can leave the interview if she chooses?”

George beamed at her. “Brilliant! Have you considered a career in contract law? I’ll get with Fleur to work out the language before we seal the deal. How does that sound, Gin?”

Ginny squirmed. “I don’t know. It’s just too much, too fast. Can I think about it for a few days?”

He gave her a gentle smile and a one-armed hug. “Absolutely. I’ll even leave copies of these for your legal counsel to look over for you.” He nodded at Hermione; she smirked back. “But don’t take too long. You’ll have to report for training in a week and they’ll want to fill this spot if you don’t want it. I’ll stall them as long as I can.” His voice grew intense, thick with unspoken emotion. “I really think you should do this. I know you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Ginny gave him a half-hearted smile as she wondered what she might be getting herself into.

***

Ginny finished securing her French braid and gave it a final pat before pivoting one way and then the other to check her appearance in the mirror. The simple dark green practice uniform didn’t look half bad, hugging her trim figure with its close-fitting tunic and breeches and knee-high boots. The game uniform, with the golden talon on the front of the tunic and intricately trimmed cloak, would look even better.

As she turned once more, the light caught the glint of silver at her neck. She fingered the tiny lightning bolt pendant on its golden chain and worriedly chewed her lip. The Harpies’ uniform guidelines were very explicit—NO JEWELRY, NO EXCEPTIONS! Extraneous shiny items on the pitch could distract a Seeker and potentially cause injuries... or even worse, the loss of the game.

But the necklace had been part of her since Harry had fastened it around her neck as his belated gift for her seventeenth birthday almost a year ago. Ginny had tried twice to make herself take it off—after seeing the pictures of him with that Russian hussy, and after he’d come to visit Fleur and Victoire, then left without acknowledging Ginny on the other side of the screen. (She hadn’t actually seen him and no one had ever confirmed that he’d been there, but she’d known.) Both times she’d tried to remove the necklace, her fingers had simply refused to work the clasp. She’d finally decided to leave it on as a reminder of what a fool she’d been to fall in love with someone like Harry Potter in the first place. At least that’s what she’d told herself.

But now, she had no choice and she still couldn’t bring herself to do it. The last thing she wanted to do on her first day was incur Gwenog’s wrath. She could probably ask Mum for help, but the thought of anyone else touching the necklace made her skin crawl.

Ginny watched her fingers in the mirror as they worked the pendant back and forth on its chain in a soothing rhythm that she’d come to depend on. She still wasn’t convinced she should’ve signed that contract—the decision had been agonizing and, in the end, she’d only done it because she had no other options besides badgering George into letting her work at the shop. But Hermione had prodded Ginny to "test your limits, since you can always fall back on the shop if things didn’t work out"—in other words, don’t take the easy way out. Right now, though, the easy way looked tempting. Maybe playing Quidditch wasn’t worth losing this piece of herself… this piece of Harry. The necklace was the only important thing she had left from her time with him. She’d given back his ring…

Her eyes shot to the empty place on her finger... her finger that had _looked_ empty even when his ring had been on it.

The flash of inspiration had Ginny fumbling for her wand and searching her mind for the correct pronunciation for the spell. She had performed the Disillusionment Charm only a few times in class last January, before she’d started on Hermione’s potion when she hadn’t been terribly attentive to anything and the spell itself had reminded her so much of Harry. She wasn’t sure she could do it properly, but she had to try.

Ginny closed her eyes, muttering the spell several times before she pointed her wand... she wanted to make only the necklace disappear, not her whole neck. Drawing a deep breath, she pointed her wand at the pendant and focused her intent—

“Ginny!” Mum’s yell from the kitchen broke her concentration. “Come along and get some breakfast. You’re going to be late.”

Trying to keep the irritation from her voice, Ginny stuck her head out of her bedroom door. “Be right down.”

She closed the door and waved a Silencing Charm at it, then turned back to the mirror. Watching her reflection carefully, she aimed her wand and all of her magical intent toward the silver pendant and its chain and held her breath as she murmured the spell. When the necklace disappeared, she gave a startled laugh of relief and felt some of her tension melt away. Throwing a change of clothes into her bag, she took one last look in the mirror, and bounded down the stairs.

Ginny somehow managed to appear at the gate of the Harpies’ practice field almost an hour early and with no apparent loss of appendage, even after taking time to argue with her mother over not eating breakfast (“Mum, I’ll just chuck it up after I Apparate.”), then taking a few moments to deposit the tea and toast that she’d eaten (to appease her mother) in the bushes near Swansea in Wales.

Since she hadn’t had much opportunity to practice Apparition after earning her license when the Ministry had held the exam in Hogsmseade, George had spent half of Sunday making sure she could get to Holyhead without Splinching herself. Swansea and Barmouth were the intermediate points he’d chosen so she wouldn’t have to try to make it all the way in one go (a dangerous feat for a beginner). He’d offered to come with her this morning—looking after his number one client was in his best interest, he’d said with a wink—but she’d decided it was time she started looking out for herself.

Now, she wished desperately that he or Hermione or anyone she knew were with her, even if it would make her look like a six-year-old with a nanny. This was the first time she could remember in years—if ever—that she’d willingly left the Burrow or Hogwarts without a family member or close friend.

Ginny goggled at the sight before her. The pictures she’d seen of the Harpies home stadium hadn’t given even a hint of its size and grandeur. Bathed in the glow of the newly risen sun, the perfectly manicured grounds sparkled with Leprechaun-gold dew. Beyond the arched gates set between tall hedgerows, a wide path split in two. To the left stood the towering green and gold stadium, making the Hogwarts pitch look more like the one behind the Burrow. Straight ahead lay the administration and training facility, a massive half-timbered building with jettied upper stories, steeply pitched gables, large pot-topped chimneys, and a covered stone walkway linking it to the stadium changing room.

When George had brought her here yesterday, she’d been so intimidated that he’d spent half an hour convincing her not to change her mind about joining the team. Aside from the World Cup her third year, Ginny had attended only one other professional Quidditch match in her life. When she was eight, someone at the Ministry had given her father tickets to see the Harpies play the Cannons at Chudley—it was the end of the season and the Cannons were no longer in contention for the Cup anyway. Since the other boys were still at school, Dad had taken her and ten-year-old Ron. Of course, they’d heard both teams play on the wireless, but seeing it in person had had a lasting effect on them: Ron had declared he could never cheer for a _girls’_ team and committed himself for life to the Cannons; Ginny had taken offense and thrown her support to the Harpies (who had won, of course) and had begun her dream of one day playing with them.

But now that she was here, she couldn’t imagine what she’d been thinking. Grabbing the gatepost to steady her quaking knees, she worked to peel her tongue from the desert that had once been the roof of her mouth. This was mad. She was standing in front of the Harpies' stadium, wearing a practice uniform, living one of her most cherished fantasies… and they were going to laugh her out of the country. How could she possibly have thought that she could do this?

Cringing, she pushed away from the gate, ready to Apparate straight back to the Burrow. But before she could form the proper thought, a loud crack in front of her nose sent her sprawling with a startled yelp.

“Oh! Sorry, luv. Popped in closer than usual. Didn’t think anyone would be here this early. Let me help you up. You’re not hurt, are you?”

Ginny warily accepted the proffered hand as she studied the newcomer. Obviously connected to the team, his green-trimmed white shirt over dark green breeches and boots were much like hers. He was attractive in an outdoorsy way—tall and wiry but fit, with close-cropped brown hair touched gold by the sun and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His indigo-grey eyes reflected concern, but sparked with warmth when a smile of relief lit his face as she dusted herself off and assured him that she was fine.

“Just startled me a bit,” she said. “I’m—”

“Ginny Weasley. You look just like your pictures.” He ignored her scowl and pumped her hand vigorously. “Liam O’Leary at your service… Harpies’ equipment manager and general muck-about… Charlie’s year at Hogwarts… played Keeper, me, wasn’t good enough for the pros like he was, but I love the game and got involved best I could. Well, come on, then. You’re not needed for the team meeting for another forty-five minutes. Let’s have the two-knut tour since you’ve got time…”

Ginny slowly relaxed as his stream of chatter continued without breath while he showed her every nook and cranny in the place. His running narrative also covered gossip about the players she recognized and other team and staff members she couldn’t remember two minutes after he’d moved on to another topic. By the time he delivered her to the meeting room, her head was spinning and she’d forgotten all about leaving for home.

The large room reminded her of a Hogwarts classroom, with two-person tables and chairs lined up in rows before a lectern and a big display board with overlapping diagrams, their glow faded as if someone hadn’t properly Vanished them the last time they were used. Ginny settled at a table in the back and watched wide-eyed as starting Chasers Flo Traylor and Roz Collier strolled in and took seats at the front. They had been two of Ginny’s idols for as long as she could remember, and coming almost face-to-face with them now made her remember why she’d wanted to leave.

Before she could make a run for it, though, the room began to fill with other familiar faces. She recognized several starters—Beater Polly Spinks, Keeper Pearl Salter, and Seeker Zoe Hargest—and a few of the reserves—Beaters Violet Pendry and Belinda Brodrick, Chasers Ruby Preece and Mavis Potts, and Keeper Rhoda Sadler. But the rest were faces she’d seen and couldn’t put names to or didn’t know at all.

Ginny sank low in her chair, gazing in awe around the room. She didn’t belong here. How could she possibly have let George talk her into this?

“Is this seat taken?”

Ginny’s stomach dropped to the floor when she looked up to find another familiar face smiling down at her. The first reserve Seeker had been on the team for only three years, but had done an excellent job of filling in when Hargest had been hit by a Bludger and sidelined for three games during Ginny’s fifth year at Hogwarts—the same year she’d filled in for Harry as Seeker and had felt a kinship with the deceptively mousey-looking girl.

“Oh, Merlin, you... you’re Kelby Howell. I’d know you anywhere.” Ginny looked around to be sure there was no butter dish to stick her elbow into—she felt ten years old again, faced with another of her childhood idols.

Kelby laughed and sat down. “And you’re Ginny Weasley. I’d know you anywhere, too.”

Ginny’s eyes grew wide, but further questions were cut off when Gwenog Jones rapped sharply on the lectern.

“All right, ladies, let’s get this show on the road. Maybe this year we won’t have any Dark Lords disrupting the season.” When the awkward chuckles faded (Ginny didn’t find the joke funny), Gwenog continued in a more serious tone. “I don’t mean to make light of it. We’re fortunate that we didn’t lose anyone in the war. Ballycastle and Montrose lost two players each and I know that some of you lost family members. We’re grateful to those who gave up so much to make sure we could have a season this year.” Ginny swallowed hard at the sudden knot of tears in her throat and dropped her gaze to the top of the table in front of her, but she could feel several players turning to look in her direction.

“So!” All eyes snapped back to the front; Ginny’s shoulders slumped in relief that Gwenog had reclaimed center stage. “On to business… You’ve probably noticed that Wilda’s not here—she called last week to say she’s got a bun in the oven and has decided it’s time to stay home and raise a family. So, that means Valmai Morgan will move up as starting Chaser.”

Gwenog paused while everyone congratulated Valmai and made a number of crude jokes about Wilda.

“Okay, settle down so I can introduce our new team members.” She indicated a willowy girl with sandy blonde hair. “Josie Ellis comes to us from the Appleby Arrows as second reserve Chaser.”

The group gave a round of polite applause as Gwenog pointed to a stocky brunette. “We finally managed to steal Alice Demery away from Kenmare as our new second reserve Beater.”

More applause and a couple of celebratory whoops rang out before Gwenog finally nodded at Ginny. “And there in the back, first reserve Chaser Ginny Weasley is fresh from the Gryffindor House team at Hogwarts.”

Ginny lowered her eyes again as everyone twisted in their chairs to stare at her—the applause was guarded and short-lived, although Kelby squeezed her elbow reassuringly.

“I trust you’ll make them welcome and break them in gently,” Gwenog finished with a hint of humor in her voice.

Ginny didn’t like the sound of the laughter coming from the front rows where the starters were sitting, and she was certain a couple of the looks sent her way weren’t in the least welcoming.

Gwenog flicked her wand to distribute a sheaf of parchment to each player. “As usual, the starters saw the Healers last week so we can get onto the field right away; this week’s Healer schedule for the reserves is on page two. When you’re not taking it in turns to get poked and prodded, you’ll be running drills on the practice pitch so we can see what you’re about. Saturday is the first full scrimmage game—we’ll begin with starters against first reserves, then make substitutions to see who works best together… and who stays on which squad.” Gwenog cast a speculative glance around the room as several people fidgeted in their seats. Flo and Roz shared a knowing smirk.

“Next week will be drills in the morning and scrimmage games in the afternoon Monday through Thursday. Friday is press day. Everyone be here on time— _Roz_ —in full uniform. Any questions? Okay, then, why are you still sitting here?”

 _Press day._ Ginny took a steadying breath as she stood and waited for her turn to file through the door. It was still nearly two weeks away, so she had time to prepare; she’d already had one session with Fleur and Hermione last night and they had planned to get together every evening for the next two weeks. Mum had even volunteered to watch Victoire if Bill had to work late (not that that was such a great hardship).

Ginny sucked in more air. She could do this; she knew she could. She just had to keep telling herself that.

With determined effort, she pushed the worry from her mind and scanned the schedule on the second page of her handout. When she noticed her name listed twice, with different Healers on Tuesday and Wednesday, she hurried to catch up with Kelby.

“Kelby, why do I have to see two Healers?”

Kelby fell into step with Ginny and waved an airy hand. “Oh, that’s no big deal. Bleckley is a physician and Andrews is a Mind Healer.”

Ginny stopped in her tracks; panic ignited her brain. “Mind Healer? Why do they think I need to see a Mind Healer? I don’t... I can’t...”

Kelby turned back with a look of surprise. “Well, it’s nothing to get fussed about. We all have to go. It’s a precautionary thing, you know? They can’t have us going round the twist when we’re on a broom, now can they?”

As the blood drained from her face, Ginny searched Kelby’s eyes for any sign of teasing or malice. All she saw were confusion and concern. Ginny looked quickly back at the schedule and noticed that everyone was listed by each of the Healers. The blood flooded back into her face as an embarrassed flush.

“Oh, erm, sorry. I didn’t see…”

Kelby wrapped her arm through Ginny’s and hurried them after the rest of the team. “Ah, don’t worry. We all went through first-day jitters. You’ll be fine.”

And, once Ginny was in the air, she _was_ fine. As always, the rushing wind blew away her worries and settled her nerves like nothing else could do. The morning flew past, and by the time the reserves trooped into the dining hall for lunch, Ginny was relaxed and chatting amiably with Kelby and the other first reserve Chasers Ruby and Mavis.

“You’re not at all like we expected you to be,” Ruby said to Ginny as they finished eating.

Ginny thought she knew what was coming and scowled. “The press only prints speculation and lies, you know.” It came out more harshly than she intended.

Ruby’s eyes went wide and she flushed scarlet. “Oh, I didn’t... well, after the story in _Quidditch World_ , we thought... they said you were so great and… well, we sort of expected you to be… but you’re really nice and just as good as they said, too.”

“Hang on.” Ginny couldn’t contain her surprise. “Did you say _Quidditch World_? Did they write something about me, too?” She couldn’t imagine what interest the sports magazine would have in her relationship with Harry.

Ginny frowned at the startled pause followed by peals of laughter from Mavis and Ruby and several others nearby who slid down the bench to join the conversation.

“You can’t mean to say you didn’t see it?” Kelby asked with a smile. “They did a full-page spread on you as the top recruit for the new season.”

Ginny blushed. “Oh, erm, no. I... I haven’t been following the league lately… revising for NEWTs, and all… And I wasn’t really planning on joining…” Her voice trailed off as they laughed again.

“Well, for someone who wasn’t angling for a spot, I’d say you did pretty well for yourself. Watch out for Lottie. She was all set to move up this year.”

Ginny cast a look down the table at second reserve Chaser Charlotte Fowler, who was glowering in the group’s direction. “I didn’t mean to take someone else’s place.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mavis said. “I’m not sure she’d have got to move up anyway. I don’t think Gwenog likes her much. But she must like you. You’re the first rookie out of school to ever make the first reserve team.”

Ginny blushed. “I think that was my brother’s doing. He negotiated the contract.”

“You mean Ron?”

Ginny couldn’t help smirking at the hopeful look in Keeper Rhoda Sadler’s eyes. “No, George. He owns a shop and fancies himself a sports agent now.”

“You have lots of brothers, don’t you?” Rhoda asked, still looking hopeful.

“S—five.” Ginny suddenly found the leftovers on her plate rather interesting.

“Well, I say let’s get to the good questions,” Violet Pendry said, breaking the tension. “Which team do you play for?”

Confused, Ginny surveyed the group’s expressions that ranged from restrained laughter to exasperated eye-rolls. “Is that a trick question?” she finally asked, glancing down at her uniform.

“Leave her alone, Vi,” Kelby said. “You know she likes men.”

“You never know,” Violet shot back. “She might swing both ways.”

“Oh!” Ginny couldn’t hold back the rush of fire that engulfed her face as she realized what they were asking. “I like men,” she blurted. _Well, one man, at least._

“Don’t believe the rumors,” Kelby said. “We’re not all lesbians. In fact, most of us aren’t.”

“I am. My girl lives in Leeds,” Violet said proudly and pointed at a dour-faced girl at the next table—Ginny thought she was a second team Beater. “Winnie is with some crazy bint in Edinburgh. Oh, and watch out for Zoe... she always tries to chat up the new recruits.” Violet pointed to where the starting Seeker was talking with Alice. “We’re not supposed to get involved with other team members, but everyone knows Flo and Roz have been a team for years.” Violet used her fingers to put quotation marks around the word team, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Flo covers for Roz a lot—Roz has a bit of a problem with the firewhiskey.” She leaned across the table and dropped her voice even further. “We’ve all wondered about Gwen, too, but she keeps her personal life to herself. The press has been trying to get to her for years, but she won’t give an interview that isn’t strictly about Quidditch.”

Ginny’s heart lurched as she looked over to where Gwenog was sitting alone, reading something as she munched on a sandwich. If Gwenog could keep her personal life out of the press, maybe Ginny could have hope for doing the same.

“So, come on, then. Give us the goods on Potter. Is he really as yummy as he looks?”

Ginny jerked from her thoughts and dropped all of her defenses into place.

But she was saved from having to answer when Kelby hissed, “Ruby!”

“What? I just thought—”

“Well, don’t. Lunch is over. Let’s go.” Kelby rose and shooed the grumbling reserves toward the door. “Sorry ’bout that,” she said to Ginny when the group moved out of earshot. “They just don’t think sometimes.”

“It’s okay.” Ginny let out a relieved breath. “I need to learn how to handle those questions better. I don’t know why they still surprise me. You’d think after...” She stopped and gave a shaky sigh. “Well, you’d think everyone would know by now that we’re not together anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kelby sniffed. “It’s none of their concern.”

Ginny was growing to like Kelby more by the minute.

***

By the end of the day, Ginny had begun to think that perhaps George and Ron and Hermione had been right to push her into this. She’d enjoyed learning the drills and getting to know her new teammates—well, most of them, anyway. And she loved the fact that she could spend nearly all of her time in the air rather than stocking shelves at the shop. This might work. She’d at least give it a fair chance.

Pleasantly tired, she took her time changing and stowing her gear in her locker, waving at various departing teammates until the changing room was nearly deserted. A quick glance at the clock spurred her to use her wand to tie both of her trainers at once so she could get moving; Fleur and Hermione would surely be at the Burrow by now.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, she stopped short—her path was blocked by the two people she had least expected to ever speak to her.

“We’d like a word, Weasley.”

Flo and Roz stood shoulder to shoulder, penning her into the narrow aisle between the lockers. Ginny could see over their shoulders that Gwenog had paused at the door and was watching the scene with casual interest.

Gwenog’s words came back to haunt her: _I trust you’ll make them welcome and break them in gently._

Flo and Roz looked anything but welcoming or gentle. Ginny had the sinking feeling that this was something of an initiation and that her standing with the team was at stake. The problem was, she’d watched the careers of these two women for years and they intimidated the hell out of her just by being in the room—a full-on confrontation had her ready to melt into a puddle.

Ginny stiffened her spine and gritted her teeth, knowing in her gut this was no time to show weakness. “I’ve only got a minute. I’m running a bit late for a meeting.”

“Won’t take long.” Roz’s grin was more of a leer.

“We just want to make sure you understand your place here,” Flo said in a deceptively quiet voice.

Roz gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah. _You_ might think you’re hotter’n a Hungarian Horntail in heat, but the rest of us don’t. Bein’ one of Potter’s cast-offs don’t carry no weight around here, so don’t think you’re goin’ to priss your cute little arse in an’ push someone else out of the way for a startin’ position.”

“You’ll be earning your keep around here, missy,” Flo said. “And, no matter what kind of contract your high-falutin’ agent negotiated, you don’t play unless we say you do. You got that?”

The feeling in Ginny’s gut flared into anger, lending strength against her fear while she braced her knees against the bench to keep them from buckling. She leveled her gaze at each of them as if she were considering her answer—a stalling trick she’d learned from her brothers. Knowing that Gwenog’s eyes were on her, Ginny forced her voice louder so she could be heard across the room.

“I appreciate your advice.” When their eyes narrowed, Ginny drew a deep breath and plunged ahead—what did she have to lose? “When I signed on, I wasn’t certain that I even wanted to play, much less take someone else’s spot.” She paused dramatically, then added in a haughty tone, “I’ve just changed my mind.”

Before they could react, she stuck her nose high enough in the air to make Fleur proud and pushed her way between them. Gwenog held the door open and gave a subtle nod of approval as she passed.

Ginny managed to maintain her demeanor until she got to the exit, then ran like Dementors were after her. Hiding behind a tree beyond the gates, she bent double, working to catch her breath and clear her head. If she Apparated now, she’d Splinch herself for sure.

Merlin, what had she just got herself into?

***

Wednesday afternoon came too quickly. She’d avoided further trouble with Flo and Roz by sticking close to the other reserves, but she couldn’t hide behind anyone for her next opponent.

The physical on Tuesday had been a breeze, but today’s visit with the Mind Healer terrified Ginny beyond words. She had the last appointment on the schedule, and thus, all day to grow increasingly agitated and distracted. After she’d let her mind wander and narrowly missed taking a Bludger for the third time since lunch, the assistant coach had sent her on her way in disgust.

Now, at Healer Andrews’s door, Ginny found herself trembling uncontrollably. Ron and Hermione had tried to ease her fears, explaining what she could expect and that they’d found it a relief to talk through everything with an unbiased listener bound by magic to keep their secrets. But nothing they’d said had mattered. She’d already worked through the worst of her depression (in spite of the lingering shadows) and she just didn’t see the point in digging everything up again.

But this was required of all team members. She couldn’t get out of it and stay on the team, and she couldn’t leave the team now because Flo and Roz would win. With a frustrated growl, she decided that she’d just have to buck up and get through it.

Holding her breath, she knocked tentatively, hoping no one would answer.

“Come in.”

Ginny swallowed her disappointment and cast a wistful look at her escape route, then raised her chin defiantly as she lifted the latch and stepped inside.

“Miss Weasley, welcome! How delightful to finally meet you. May I call you Ginny?”

In spite of her professional air, Healer Jacqueline Andrews had a grandmotherly look about her and a warm smile that was, no doubt, intended to invite confidences. A professional grandmother. Ginny held back a snort as she gritted her teeth and stiffened her spine. She tried to infuse casual confidence into her voice as she accepted the Healer’s outstretched hand.

“Yes, please call me Ginny. It’s nice to meet you, too.” She didn’t quite manage to disguise the lie.

Healer Andrews’s smile never faltered but her eyes grew serious. “I solemnly swear that any words shared in this room will remain between us, unless what you say poses a danger to you or to someone else.”

Ginny had been expecting the confidentiality spell that spiraled up her arm and centered in her heart, but it still startled and unsettled her. She had to work to keep from snatching her hand away as she withdrew and crossed her arms.

“Please be seated.” Healer Andrews gestured to an armchair before the desk, then pointed her wand at the door, saying the locking and silencing spells aloud. Ginny chewed her lip at the thought of being locked in, and relaxed only slightly at the Healer’s reassuring smile. “Those are meant to keep everyone else out, not to keep you in. You are free to leave at anytime, but I do hope you’ll stay.”

As Healer Andrews settled into the opposite armchair, Ginny nodded and shifted her gaze around the room. She forced herself to uncross her arms and tried to appear relaxed—looking nervous would certainly only lengthen this visit.

“You seem uncomfortable. You don’t want to be here, do you?”

Startled at the quiet words, Ginny’s eyes shot back to the Healer. She hadn’t expected to be called out, at least not so quickly. “Oh... erm... well, you know, it’s just... I don’t really see the point. I’m fine. I don’t really need… this.” She waved her hand vaguely around the room and shrugged with a weak smile. “I’m fine.” Hoping the words sounded more confident than they felt, she tried to maintain a casual air, but she couldn’t seem to sit still as her eyes darted around the cluttered room, searching for a safe place to rest.

Healer Andrews smiled and folded her hands serenely in her lap. “Well, then, you have no reason to be nervous, do you? Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Ginny couldn’t help gaping. Merlin, didn’t this woman read the newspapers? When she finally found her voice, it was uncontrollably terse.

“I’m certain that you know all about me. Probably far more than even I know, if you’ve read—” Ginny stopped and bit into her tongue. This was not the way to speed this interview along. She made an effort to soften her tone. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, but the press…”

She closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath before trying once more. “I’m the youngest of sev—six children and the first girl in several generations. My mum works at home, my father and my third brother work at the Ministry, my oldest brother works as a Cursebreaker for Gringott’s and his wife just had their first child.” Her voice grew sarcastic. “You probably saw it in the _Pro_ —”

Ginny snapped her mouth shut and looked away for a moment before swallowing hard and beginning again. “My second brother keeps dragons in Romania, my fourth brother owns a shop and my fifth brother is going into the Auror Academy at the end of the month... he’s engaged to my best friend. I just finished Hogwarts and I love to fly. That’s it. Just a normal girl in a normal family.” She couldn’t keep her leg from bouncing impatiently as she watched for the Healer’s reaction.

“That sounds lovely. Your family is close, then?”

“Yes, quite close. Especially since...” Ginny looked away as her eyes filled unexpectedly.

“Since…?”

Something snapped inside of Ginny. She couldn’t play this game anymore. Springing from her chair, she paced angrily before the door.

“Let’s just get on with it. Unless you’ve been living on another planet, you know all there is to know about me, and then some. And, if you don’t, I’m certainly not going to tell you what you can read in every newspaper and magazine in the world.” She stopped and threw her arms wide. “I don’t need to be here. I’m fine... or I would be if everyone would just leave me alone!”

Healer Andrews cocked her head curiously. “You seem to have a bit of an issue with the press.”

“A bit? HA!” Ginny flexed her fingers, yearning to grab her wand and hex this infuriating bint. “They’ve only stolen my life and twisted it so much, I don’t recognize myself. All they ever print are lies and even when they do accidentally get something right, they still have to turn it into something horrid. And next week…” Ginny closed her eyes and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Merlin, next week…” She groped blindly for the door. “This was a mistake. I told them I can’t do this… I have to get out of here.”

“Ginny, wait…”

Ginny stopped with her hand on the latch, poised for flight.

Healer Andrews continued gently, “You’re right. I have seen the stories, and you’ve had a lot to bear over the past couple of years, especially for one so young. I would be very surprised if you _weren’t_ frightened. But, please stay. Let me help.”

Ginny leaned her forehead against the door and closed her eyes against the hot moisture pooling in them. “Fleur and Hermione have tried to train me… role-playing, that sort of thing. It’s not helping.”

“Facing your fears in a safe setting is good. But you need to thoroughly work through them, talk them out… We can meet twice a week for as—”

“NO!” Ginny whirled and pressed her back to the door. “This meeting... it’s required, so they can’t really say anything… but I can’t come back. They’ll find out… twist it around…” She stopped when panic choked off her voice.

Healer Andrews stood and held out a placating hand. “You know anything you say here is confidential.”

“That doesn’t matter… just the fact that I’m here… they’ll…” She closed her eyes again and swallowed heavily. Her voice turned bitter. “My brother died. I’ve fought Death Eaters and been kidnapped by a werewolf. I spent months terrified for Ron and Hermione and...” she had to swallow several times before she could continue “...when they were on the run.” She put a hand over her eyes and gave a humorless bark of laughter. “I’ve even been possessed by Voldemort himself, and do you know what my boggart is? Bloody Rita Skeeter. They’ll find out. They always do.”

Healer Andrews took a tentative step closer. “We can keep this quiet, Ginny. I can give you a potion that will help with the anxiety and talk to Gwenog to make sure you’re protected. We can meet in the evenings when no one else is around and you can Floo in and out so no one will see. I can help if you’ll let me.”

Ginny sagged against the door, tilting her head back in a vain attempt to contain her tears. She sniffled loudly and ran a hand over her face. She was so very tired… tired of fighting this _thing_ that just wouldn’t go away. Maybe Ron and Hermione were right. Maybe it was time…

She sniffled again and opened her eyes in surprise when a tissue was pressed into her hand. With a small grateful smile, she blew her nose in a very unladylike manner. Healer Andrews waited patiently for her to compose herself.

“I’ve already been on a potion,” Ginny said finally, deliberately avoiding discussion about further sessions. “I’m being weaned off of it.”

Healer Andrews’s eyebrows disappeared into her hair. “Oh? What potion?”

Ginny walked back to her chair, suddenly worried that she might get Hermione in trouble. “It’s... well, I’m not really sure. A friend brewed it for me. It’s supposed to work sort of like the Muggle medications for depression.”

The Healer’s voice was unmistakably horrified. “You’ve been taking an untested potion brewed by a classmate?”

Ginny gave an indignant snort. “She’s brilliant in potions and she did it with the help of a Potions Master. She’d never do anything to put me in danger. If you think I’m in bad shape now, you should’ve seen me at Christmas. I’d refused to get help, and it was sort of a last resort... but it worked.”

Ginny lowered her eyes under the Healer’s worried scrutiny. “I’d be interested in looking at this potion,“ Andrews said. “Could you bring me a sample

Twisting her tissue into shreds, Ginny shrugged but didn’t look up. “I’ll ask her. I... I don’t want to get her into trouble.”

“If it worked for you, maybe it can help others, too. Perhaps this could be financially beneficial to… your friend.”

Ginny’s head jerked up. Healer Andrews obviously wasn’t fooled about who had concocted the potion, but Ginny also hadn’t thought about the possibility of marketing it to help others. She wondered if Hermione had.

“But first things, first,” Healer Andrews continued. “I still believe a professional-strength Calming Draught and additional counseling sessions along with your role-play training can help. I can also talk to Gwenog about giving you a pass for one-on-one interviews next week. You won’t be able to avoid them forever, especially if you’re as good as I’ve heard, but we can try to put it off until you’re ready.”

Ginny dropped her face into her hands. Could this possibly work? Could she really escape this oppressive irrational fear? She slowly raised her eyes. “You said I could Floo in?”

Healer Andrews smiled. “Starting tomorrow evening.”


	31. Infiltration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes looking for trouble and finds it.

“We don’t have to do it this way.”

Harry grimaced at Ingalls. “We’ve been over this. They’re minions who don’t know anything and we’ll never get to Dolohov if we just keep rounding them up. Besides, every time we take out one operation, two more sprout up, like a bloody Hydra. We’ll never get them all until we get to the top. Infiltrating the network is the only way.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. We need to send in someone who’s more...” When Ingalls stopped to search for the right word, Harry quickly cut in.

“More what? Level-headed? Intelligent? Professional?” Harry knew he was being defensive, but he couldn’t help it.

“I was going to say experienced.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“That charade with Katya and the undercover investigations in Albania were no more dangerous than Exploding Snap compared to this.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You’re forgetting the Ministry and Gringotts.”

“And you didn’t exactly make a clean getaway, did you? Even if you and your friends got out…” The unspoken _others didn’t_ bounced off the tent walls. Ingalls’s scowl deepened. “You’ve never been in this deep and for this long. You might not be so lucky this time. Besides, we should let the Hungarian Ministry take care of this. We have no jurisdiction here.”

Harry held onto his anger with an effort. “They’re not doing anything. And I’d bet my wand that Dolohov’s got them in his pocket, or enough of them to make sure he never gets caught. Robards has approved this plan—he hasn’t said we can’t, at any rate. The shipment is going out soon and I need to get in there now so we can be ready.”

“But why you? I can—”

“I’m the best one for the job!” Harry’s voice rose several notches as his control gave way. “I’ve been watching this kid for weeks. I know his habits. I’m closer to his age. I can get into character more easily. And if something happens… well, I don’t have a family waiting for me.”

“Is that what you think?” Summers finally jumped into the fray. “What about your godson? Doesn’t he count? You only go effing barmy if you can’t get back every few weeks to see him. How are you going to do that if you’re undercover for Merlin knows how long?”

Harry glowered at Summers. “I told Mrs. Tonks last time I was there that I might not be able to get back for a while. And he’s young. If something happens, well, he won’t remember… and anyway, that’ll just give me more reason not to get caught, won’t it?”

Summers rolled his eyes. “What is it with you and taking risks? I can’t decide if you’ve got a death wish or you’re just bloody stupid.”

Harry scowled; Summers just would _not_ let that last mission go. “That’s not the first time I’ve pulled someone out of Fiendfyre. I couldn’t let them die like that.”

“Yeah, but going back in to save the evidence was just mental. And you never wait for backup, even when you’re outnumbered twenty to one.”

“There were only five of them! And if I’d waited—”

“Yeah, yeah, they’d have got away. That’s what you say every time.”

Ingalls put a calming hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You do seem to throw yourself into things without thinking, son.”

The words were meant to be soothing, but Harry bristled at the last one. Ingalls had taken to using it a lot lately, for both him and Summers, but it was beginning to get on Harry’s last nerve. He was no one’s son.

“Well, I’ve thought about this and it’s the only way.” He threw up his hands to stop them when they started to protest again. “I’m going to do it! Are you going to help me, or not?”

Harry followed Summers’s glance at the wide-eyed boy huddled on the camp bed at the back of the tent... the key to the whole infiltration.

They’d been watching the village for only a short while when Harry had noticed the young teenager who was sent out every few days to hunt for game in the forest, seemingly as some sort of test. The boy was expected to use Avada Kedavra, but simply didn’t have strong enough will for it to be effective. To compensate, he had tried to trap small prey and suffocate it so it would have no wounds, but the method wasn’t very successful and he was brutally punished whenever he failed to make a kill.

One day, when he’d stumbled on the boy crouched under a bush in tears, Harry had begun the painstaking process of securing the boy’s trust by immobilizing rabbits and squirrels and the occasional small deer for him. Although Harry had never revealed his true name or appearance, he’d eventually convinced the boy that he and his mother would be protected if he’d let Harry take his place. 

Now, the boy watched them with panicked eyes. A silencing shield meant he couldn’t hear them—not that he would understand them, anyway—but he could certainly tell that they were arguing. And it must be particularly unnerving to watch someone who looked exactly like himself confronting two strangers. Harry closed his eyes and took a couple of calming breaths before launching into his oft-repeated reasoning.

“Look... we’ve gone through his memories, so I know the routines and the names of all the players. He’s little more than a house-elf, and I certainly know that role well enough. They hardly pay him any attention at all, except...“ Harry paused to swallow down the bile that always rose when he thought of what the boy had been through. “But I can take care of that. It’ll be our best chance to get information and to be there when Dolohov’s deputy arrives for the next shipment. All I need is for you to check the hole in that tree every day for messages and keep a steady supply of Polyjuice coming. As long as I’ve got that, I’ll be okay. And I’ll send a Patronus when it’s time to move.”

Summers and Ingalls shared a look that signaled defeat.

Ingalls ran a weary hand through his hair. “I just wish we had a better idea of when it was going down.”

Harry heaved a silent breath of relief and pulled on the boy’s tattered cloak as he cast his language translation charm and headed toward the tent opening before they could start another argument. “I’ve got to get going. They’re going to wonder where he is.”

“You stay in touch,” Ingalls’s command followed Harry into the cool October air. “Two days. If we don’t hear from you for two days straight, we’re coming in.”

Harry waved a hand over his shoulder as he grabbed the day’s hunt and took off at a trot. He didn’t dare Apparate in case they were out looking for him, so he half ran through the trees toward the village. He had a long way to walk and he didn’t fancy taking a beating for the boy.

Although the boy, Jani, was the same height as Harry, the gangly 14-year-old limbs felt strange and unmanageable and, in his haste, Harry stumbled several times over the too-long feet. (Even with the inch or so he’d added since leaving Hogwarts, Harry had accepted that he’d never make it to six feet tall; Jani would probably be at least that when he was grown.)

As Harry had realized during the disastrous Bulgarian raid, Dolohov had a fondness for “recruiting” young boys—primarily by forcing them to torture a parent upon threat of death for the rest of the family. When the boys didn’t do it well enough (and they never did), Dolohov’s followers would demonstrate the Cruciatus on the boy and other family members, then kill the parent. After that, physical and psychological brutalization kept the new recruits in line while they were trained in the ways of the Death Eaters (as they still called themselves). The process also kept entire villages terrorized into submission to serve as production and distribution bases for illicit potions, black market ingredients and valuables, and magical slaves.

Harry, Summers, and Ingalls had rescued enough of these poor kids over the past six months to know that winning their confidence was nearly impossible. Those who weren’t permanently traumatized were either too terrified or too indoctrinated to willingly share what little information they had. And Harry fought diligently against using Veritaserum on them—they’d already been through enough.

That’s why Harry was determined to make this infiltration successful... to prove to Jani that he’d made the right decision. Convincing him hadn’t been easy, but the most difficult part had been persuading Jani to share his memories for Pensieve review; once Harry had seen the depraved way the boy had been used, he’d hated himself for looking at memories no one should ever have to share. But it had been the most expedient way to get the information he needed, and he’d told himself that in the end it would be better for Jani and his mother—better for everyone—if they could bring Dolohov down, no matter what the means.

Harry sometimes worried about the compromises he’d begun to make. Even before leaving Hogwarts, he’d learned that life wasn’t as black and white as he’d always believed, and that in order to fight the forces of darkness, one had to be willing to operate in the deeper shades of grey. Or so he told himself. The way Harry saw it, spells weren’t necessarily only Light or Dark, either. Any spell could be considered Grey—even Dark—if the caster had nefarious intentions. Memory charms, stunning and blasting curses, body-binding spells—most of the defensive spells they’d been taught in Auror training could be considered Dark Grey if used for the wrong purposes. But even so, he could often hear Hermione in his head, scolding him about some of the other hexes and spells he’d begun to use freely—the Grey magic that was defined by the intent of the caster. So far, his intentions had remained honorable, which kept the magic Light Grey. But, then, he did have his own set of standards.

He could no longer see a need under any circumstance for the Cruciatus Curse. And he still resisted using Avada Kedavra, although he wasn’t certain he always would if he could see no other way out. But he hardly gave a second thought anymore to casting an Imperius on a Dark wizard if it meant the success of a mission or the protection of innocent lives.

The British Ministry hadn’t yet rescinded the statutes permitting Aurors to use Unforgiveables, and the Continental Ministries had a much more relaxed view of the spells. Nonetheless, Harry had learned a few new spells along the way that should probably be included in the category: chief among them, how to implant “memories” that had never happened. He always shuddered at the thought that Tom Riddle had used the spell to make others confess to murders they hadn’t committed. But the person who had taught it to Harry had only ever used it to protect herself from the perverted situation she’d been thrown into as a child—and that was just how Harry intended to use it.

He smiled at the thought of Katya and wondered how she was doing. He hadn’t seen her since they’d left Sofia last spring, and if she’d sent any owls, they hadn’t found him. But that was to be expected since he spent so much time using Polyjuice, although Harry supposed she probably hadn’t written to him anyway. He didn’t think she’d been hurt or angry, but… well, whatever it was they’d had together had just run its course.

Cursing as he stumbled over a fallen branch, Harry shook his head in irritation, trying without success to push away the nagging memories that always came with thoughts of Katya.

After the pictures of them had hit the Prophet, he’d realized what a fool he’d been to think no one would care... or that he wouldn’t care if they did. But, surprisingly, the Howlers he’d received from Mrs. Weasley and Fleur had warmed him, making him squirm with an odd mixture of shame and gratitude that they’d cared enough to be outraged at him.

On the other hand, Hermione’s letter had devastated him. It wasn’t red and didn’t screech at him or explode in his face, but it was a Howler just the same. And even as her calm logical words burned humiliation and love into his soul, what she’d left out had hurt far worse—Ginny.

He’d read the letter over and over, looking for even the smallest hint of Ginny’s reaction. But unlike every other letter Hermione had sent since he’d left, she’d made no mention of Ginny at all. No vague references, no veiled clues, nothing. Not a word.

He should’ve known—it was his own fault. He’d spurned every mention of Ginny for months, but once Hermione, and even Fleur and Mrs. Weasley, had finally complied with his wishes, the pain had taken him by surprise and he’d sunk deep into a pool of self-pity on the sofa, drowning his misery with the most expensive bottle of 20-year-old Bulgarian brandy he could find.

Katya had tended to him, massaging his neck and shoulders, running her nails over his scalp in soothing circles, murmuring soft nothings into his ear until he’d relaxed and accepted her gentle kisses and sheltering arms. She didn’t ask questions, just silently offered to help him forget.

And he’d let her try.

It didn’t work. But he’d been grateful for her care and had tried to make a go of a relationship, even if they’d both known from the start that it was futile. Oh, they got on well enough together and, well… she had her charms. But, even though he generally trusted her, he was never entirely certain about her motives: Did she want him for himself, or because he was Harry Potter? Or was it because she was lonely? Or grateful? Or just because she had been trained from a young age to pursue wealthy, powerful men?

In the end, her motives hadn’t really mattered. The real reason they would never work was that Harry’s heart was never in it. How could it be, when he’d left it hundreds of miles away?

And so he and Summers and Ingalls had stayed in Sofia for a few months, using the flat as a base for scouting missions, letting the photographers occasionally catch him to keep their cover intact while they checked every lead on Dolohov and participated in at least a dozen raids throughout Eastern Europe. In between trips, Harry had got Katya to teach him everything she knew about spying and spells, potions and play-acting, dancing and etiquette and observation—anything that might help him infiltrate the network and get closer to Dolohov.

“You’re late!”

Harry looked up at the angry wizard standing at the edge of the cottage garden and drew a deep breath—time to test his skills. He hunched into a defensive pose and timidly held up the two rabbits.

“I had a hard time—”

The blow came quickly, with a resounding crack that echoed through Harry’s head, making him see stars before he found himself face down in a pile of cold mud and moldering leaves. He remained still, tensed for the next strike.

“You wouldn’t have such a hard time if you weren’t such a fucking Squib. Get up and get those rabbits cleaned. We’re hungry.”

As the man stomped back into the cottage, Harry breathed a sigh of relief and carefully pushed himself up, giving his head a shake to clear it. He was definitely going to make sure these bastards got what was coming to them.

***

Harry had managed to get through nearly three weeks without anyone working out that he wasn’t Jani. As he’d expected, the wizards running the operation were more muscle than brains, the one exception being Szabo, the leader and the biggest one, who seemed to have more brains than the rest but chose to use his muscle instead. In all, four Death Eaters lived in the house where Harry was kept, while eight more were in two houses in other parts of the village; he had only briefly seen the boys who were held in those houses.

Harry spent most days confined to the cottage, performing house-elf duties when he wasn’t dodging hexes, beatings, and other things he didn’t even want to think about. At night, he lay on a wad of filthy rags in a cold corner of the kitchen, often falling into fitful sleep with his stomach turning itself inside out from hunger when he couldn’t steal extra scraps of food.

What he hadn’t counted on were the memories of his younger years with the Dursleys that flooded in, leaving a tight knot of anger and helplessness that sometimes threatened to make him forget he was just playing a role and had more important things to do. Of course, it didn’t help that all of the Death Eaters called him “boy” as if it were a dirty word, just the way Uncle Vernon had done.

For the sake of appearances, Harry purposely took the occasional clout to the head or deliberately didn’t duck a hex quickly enough, but for the most part he was able to avoid the worst mistreatment by using wandless magic to create distractions (he was never more thankful for the gift) and by spiking the drinks at supper with sleep potion. He’d had to use the memory implantation spell on only two occasions—once when he was alone in the house with an angry Szabo, and once when two of the others had decided that he could service them both at the same time. He’d done his best to stay out of their way as much as possible since.

Unfortunately, every few days, one of them would take it upon themselves to “train” him with dueling practice. Harry could easily take any of them—or all of them—before they’d fully drawn their wands, but Jani’s skills were minimal on a good day, and practically non-existent when faced with an adult Dark wizard. To convincingly play his role the first time, Harry had had to go back in his mind to his fourteen-year-old self’s encounter with Voldemort in the graveyard. In the course of the duel, the flashback had nearly taken over and he had struggled to keep from either curling into a ball or blasting the Death Eater into oblivion; he’d spent hours afterward putting his head back in order. By the fourth session, he’d worked out how to appear frightened and inept while watching the Death Eater’s style so he would know which hexes to expect and could take or avoid them at will. He almost began to look forward to the challenge.

But hunting days were his favorite. On those days, Szabo would drive him into the woods with a rapid-fire series of hexes and threats of punishment if he took too long or failed to kill something. Harry would run far enough to be sure he wasn’t followed, then leave a message in the tree and collect his Polyjuice supply (he really needed to recommend an Order of Merlin First Class for whoever had developed the longer-lasting formula). After quickly bagging his game, he would Disillusion himself and spend the rest of his free time eavesdropping on conversations and nosing around the potions operation in the village schoolhouse. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to learn anything about the shipment schedule. Dolohov apparently thought uncertainty was the best way to keep the production facility on its toes.

The isolated wizarding village was small, with no more than a hundred people or so—even fewer since the Death Eaters had come to town. Most of the residents were forced to work in the production process, slicing and dicing ingredients, tending hot cauldrons, or bottling and packaging the finished product. The few remaining women were assigned to prepare meager meals for the workers or to care for the half-dozen small children who hadn’t been killed in the initial attack. The Death Eaters used threats against the little ones as the best means to keep the workers under control; adults might be willing to sacrifice themselves, but not if it meant watching a young child be publicly brutalized and mutilated, then kept alive to suffer.

Harry had seen Jani’s mother several times, but he’d taken care not to let her see him. She looked tired and frightened, but otherwise in good condition. He’d sworn to protect her, but getting her out would be too dangerous for everyone, so he had to content himself with checking in on her as often as he could.

Even with the fear constantly gnawing his gut at the knowledge of what would happen if he were discovered, to Harry the most frustrating thing about this undercover mission was the raging sense of helplessness. Rather than following his natural inclination to rescue everyone, Harry had to watch and do nothing as people were tortured and forced into slavery. But, agonizing as it was, holding back was necessary; intervening could break his cover and put them all in even more danger. As he’d told Ingalls and Summers, they could free this village, but they’d lose the bigger prize of putting an end to such terrorism on a wider scale.

For the greater good. Harry snorted as the words echoed in his head. Yeah, he was still Dumbledore’s man through and through… even if he hated it sometimes.

***

“Let’s go!”

On Friday morning of the third week, Szabo unceremoniously snagged Harry by the hair and dragged him from the cottage with no explanation. Certain that they’d found him out, Harry stumbled along, working out his plan as they made their way to the village square. When Szabo shoved him to the ground, Harry shifted to free his wand hand and looked up to find that his fears were confirmed—the Death Eaters and boys from the other houses were forming a circle around him and several guards were herding the workers and children from their buildings. Carefully sliding his wand from his pocket, Harry remained still, forcing himself to wait for Szabo to make the first move.

“Production for the next shipment has been completed,” Szabo announced to the group as he paced casually next to Harry, tapping his wand on the palm of his other hand. “As a reward, a bit of sport.”

With a jutting motion of Szabo’s chin, a boy from one of the other houses was shoved into the circle, nearly on top of Harry. A memory from the Pensieve flashed through Harry’s mind—this was Jani’s Dudley.

Not quite as big as Dudley, the boy was still head and shoulders taller than Jani and twice as wide. Jani had been terrified of him, but had never been able to prove the boy’s bullying over the years. As Harry pushed himself slowly to his feet and cowered away, he saw fear beneath the hatred and determination in the black eyes glaring at him—fear that hadn’t been apparent in the Pensieve.

Szabo’s voice boomed into Harry’s thoughts. “A duel! To see how our recruits are coming in their training. To the winner, a meal—not the regular gruel, but rabbit stew with fresh bread and wine. To the loser—a chance to learn from your mistakes by watching your mother endure the Cruciatus Curse.”

Terror instantly replaced all other emotion in ”Dudley’s” face; Harry followed the dark eyes to the woman being pushed to stand next to Jani’s mother at the front of the crowd. No comparison could be made between the two. Where Jani’s mother looked tired and frightened, the other woman also looked ill and fragile.

Harry’s head spun. As relieved as he was that his cover was still intact, this was much worse. He’d lose the duel in a heartbeat if he could take the curse himself—but the choice before him was too hard. He’d sworn to protect Jani’s mother, and he couldn’t bring himself to think of sacrificing her, but the other woman would never survive such torture.

“Stand back!”

At Szabo’s order, the crowd shifted to the perimeter of the square, leaving Harry and the other boy circling each other nervously as Szabo joined the onlookers and made a wide sweeping motion with his arm. A shimmering dome settled over the open area, encasing the duelers. Harry suspected it was to contain the fight to one area as much as to protect the crowd—well the Death Eaters, at least—from stray hexes.

“Begin!”

Almost before the word had left Szabo’s mouth, “Dudley” fired off a Stunner that Harry barely managed to evade, especially when it bounced off the inside of the shield and came back at him from behind. This was going to be a challenge.

Stall… Stall… Stall…

The word beat a rhythm in Harry’s brain—mostly because he couldn’t think of what else to do. Being so much smaller than the other boy, Harry decided Jani had probably learned to dodge and run, just the way he’d done with Dudley’s gang. But in this setting, he had nowhere to hide. He ducked and circled anyway, mimicking Jani’s abilities by firing off purposely mis-aimed shots and making only the occasional hit with weak hexes.

The fight went on for what seemed hours, although it couldn’t have been more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Harry was tiring quickly and the other boy was growing increasingly infuriated, throwing darker and darker hexes as the panic in his eyes intensified. Harry needed to bring this thing to an end before he completely lost control, but he could see no clear option.

“ENOUGH!”

At the magically amplified command, the shield fell away and several Death Eaters plunged forward to grab Harry and the other boy, pinning their arms to keep them from casting any more spells. Harry nearly sobbed with relief.

The crowd parted to make way for the imposing newcomer who strode into their midst, his cloak swirling angrily about him. He stopped in the center of the square and turned slowly, his polished steel eyes shooting daggers through the cowering masses. No one dared to move.

Harry peered from beneath his lashes; Jani’s memories had contained only glimpses of Dolohov’s deputy. The man wasn’t particularly tall, but his bearing made him seem more so as everyone bowed before him. Regal was the right word to describe him. Even Harry could tell that his impeccable robes were incredibly expensive, the perfect shade of charcoal to set off the jet black curls spilling over his shoulders and those cold grey eyes. A neatly trimmed mustache and goatee punctuated the chiseled face. Harry was immediately struck by the thought that this is what Sirius might have looked like had he not spurned his family and gone to Azkaban.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man demanded as he pinned Szabo with his silver gaze, his voice razor sharp.

Szabo bent even lower, hands clasped in supplication, apparently reluctant to meet the man’s eyes. “Only a bit of sport, my lord. To keep up morale and train the recru—”

“Then why are the workers standing about?”

Szabo bent lower. “To teach them respect and compliance, my—”

“They learn respect and compliance by working.”

“But we have completed the ship—”

“Then why have you not begun the next?”

Szabo began bobbing and backing away. “Yes, my lord, you are right.” He stood and glared at the other Death Eaters as if they were at fault for this reprimand. “You heard him. Back to work! An extra shift tonight! And no meals!”

“An extra shift? No meals?” the deputy spat. “Tired and hungry? Your workers will make mistakes. The Master does not pay you to waste his time and money in such a manner. You shall be the one to explain.”

For a split second, Szabo’s face reflected sheer terror before he could compose himself and turn back to the fearful faces watching him. “Get to work! Now!”

Death Eaters and workers alike scattered. Harry turned to go with them, hoping to blend into the crowd so he could circle back for further investigation, but before he could slip away the man pointed at him.

“Get him cleaned up while I attend the first inspection.”

Harry didn’t have time to wonder at the order before Szabo had grabbed him by the upper arm and begun dragging him to their cottage. He shoved a bundle of cloth at Harry and sent him stumbling into the bathroom.

“Wash!” Szabo thrust a ratty toothbrush at him. “Don’t forget your hair and teeth. You’ve got five minutes.”

The door slammed and the lock clicked. Harry stared at it in stunned silence for several seconds. Nothing in Jani’s memories had prepared him for this, even though no one else seemed to think it unusual. In a daze, he inspected the bundle in his arms: robes—untattered, soft, and sweet-smelling. He hadn’t worn clean clothes in three weeks. And a hot bath… dear Merlin, a hot bath would be like going straight to heaven.

But why? Why had the man chosen Jani? And why hadn’t Jani—

_BAM! BAM! BAM!_

Harry jumped as the door threatened to splinter under the blows.

“I don’t hear water running!” Szabo’s voice boomed. “You have four minutes! Don’t make me come in there and wash you myself!”

Harry cursed under his breath and sprang into action, stripping as the water heated, then basking in the steamy relief of washing away thee weeks’ worth of grime while his mind raced, trying to work out the puzzle of the demanding stranger. He brushed his teeth in the shower, so he could stand beneath the hot spray a few seconds longer, then, with the warm droplets still clinging to his body, tossed on the fresh robes just as Szabo nearly yanked the door from its hinges.

Szabo jammed a pair of supple leather knee-high boots into Harry’s chest and jerked him into a chair in the kitchen. “Put them on. Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

Fumbling blindly, his too-long hair dripping into his eyes, Harry tried to work his damp bare feet into the close-fitting leather that seemed determined to fight him. Before he could get his second foot seated in its boot, Szabo had snatched him from the chair and headed out of the door. Harry stumbled along, trying to stomp his foot properly into place; he still hadn’t succeeded by the time they arrived at the schoolhouse.

Harry tripped up the two front steps and nearly went sprawling as Szabo dragged him through the small entry and into the main room that had served as the school’s classroom before it had been lined with tables and cauldrons and converted into a production facility. Shaking the damp curls from his eyes, Harry could feel the tension in the room as Szabo prodded him, limping, through its length. Dolohov’s deputy stood to the left of the door in front of several open boxes of potions, holding a phial to the light as the Potions Master gazed anxiously at him and the workers stood silently around the walls, eyes downcast as if trying to make themselves invisible. Just as Szabo pushed Harry into a storeroom that must have previously served as the headmaster’s office, the deputy’s voice broke the stillness.

“You! Go in there and gather a complete set of ingredients. I wish to inspect them.”

Szabo shoved Harry into a hard chair in the corner of the room. “Don’t move until you’re told.” He pulled the door shut with a snap.

Harry hardly had time to push his foot properly into the boot and begin to take in the shelf-lined walls before the door opened again and Jani’s mother slipped nervously in. He stared wide-eyed as she quickly closed the door and threw herself at him. Startled, he returned her embrace without thinking—then his brain kicked in.

She would know. She would know and they would both be in danger.

“Jani, my sweet Jani. I have only a moment. How are you? Have they hurt you any more?”

Harry hesitated, unsure of the best way to respond to her frantic whisper. He finally shook his head. “No, I... I... I am staying out of their way better.” At her palpable relief, Harry resolved to try to ease her mind. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

She caressed his cheeks between her hands and searched his eyes. Harry tried to maintain a confident look, all the while praying that she wouldn’t realize he wasn’t who she thought. His stomach plummeted when a crease appeared between her brows.

“You are not...”

Harry’s heart beat a frantic tattoo: she knows… she knows… she knows…

“You have not become one of them, have you, Jani?”

“No!” She had to be able to hear the battering ram in his chest. “No, I would never do that. You know I won’t.”

At the sound of footsteps outside the door, she released him and began snatching ingredients from the shelves. Harry had to strain to hear her whispered words.

“You must not anger him. I know you don’t remember the last time, but please...” Her voice caught and she stopped speaking for a moment even though her hands continued their work. “Please, just do whatever he asks.”

Harry jumped at his chance. “Why don’t I remember? What does he want?”

She stilled for a moment, but kept her eyes on the shelves before her. “I... I can only guess. He... he takes a different one each time. But he steals the memories before he goes, so no one knows…” Her voice choked into silence as she pulled more items from the shelves. Arms filled to overflowing, she leaned over and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Be safe, my son. Do what you must to survive. I will love you always, no matter what.”

Harry’s heart broke for her as the door closed. He stuffed away the flicker of longing for his own mother, the flash of jealousy at those who had had a chance to grow up with such love, and fought the burning need to get her out of here, to reunite her with her son… at the very least, to let her know that Jani was safe. Doing so would be too dangerous for all of them.

Dropping his head into his hands, he forced his mind to refocus on the task at hand. So, apparently Dolohov’s deputy would “take” one of the recruits each time he came.

_He steals the memories…_

That would explain why Jani had no memories of this for the Pensieve. At least he would have an excuse for not knowing anything about the man or what he wanted. But that didn’t explain why. If the deputy was using the boys as Harry suspected, why would he feel the need to Obliviate them? Could it be that much worse than the treatment they received from the Death Eaters? And no one here seemed to be able to use Legilimency… what if Dolohov was the one he was hiding from?

The door swung open. “Come!”

Harry jumped to his feet and followed the deputy out of the schoolhouse. They strode in silence to a small, but elegantly appointed, cottage at the end of the street that crossed the center of the main road through the village. The quaint white, red-roofed house was tucked into a grove of evergreens behind a low garden wall. In spite of the chill November air, the arch over the front gate was covered with roses in full bloom, like the multicolored blossoms in the garden beyond.

Once inside, the deputy pointed to an armchair by the blazing fire. “Sit.” As Harry scrambled to obey, the deputy threw his cloak on the back of the sofa and stepped through the back door to the terrace. He stood, hands on hips, facing the garden as if he were waiting for something.

Harry took the opportunity to inspect his surroundings. The cozy sitting room held a sofa and two armchairs surrounding a tea table before the fireplace. A wall of shelves behind the sofa was packed with hundreds of books. Three doors led to two bedrooms and the kitchen, where Harry could see a woman from the workers’s kitchen scurrying about. Her face drawn tight with fear, the woman loaded a variety of dishes onto a tray and hefted it with some difficulty out to the terrace.

The deputy turned to watch her set the food on the linen-covered table and, after several moments, pointed at one of the dishes. “What is this?”

She startled at his sharp words, jangling the silver ladle against the china tureen she’d been dipping from. “Stuffed cabbage, my lord.”

“Take it away.”

The woman wrung her hands into her apron, clearly distressed at displeasing the deputy. “But, my lord, you praised them last time. I thought...”

“That was last time. Today, I don’t want them. Get them out of the house. You may go.”

The woman whisked the plate back into the kitchen and slid the cabbages into a small bag. With a warning glance at Harry over her shoulder, she slipped the bag into the pocket of her robes beneath her apron. He knew the cabbages would soon fill someone’s stomach and hoped she would take some to the children’s building. But he wished she’d been able to leave one behind for him; he hadn’t eaten even his usual dry crusts for breakfast, and the aroma of the thick stew and fresh bread wafting from the terrace were making his stomach grumble in the most embarrassing way.

“I'm waiting!”

The sharp words jerked Harry’s head up to find the deputy seated at the table, watching expectantly. Careful to keep his eyes down as he affected a nervous slouch, Harry made his way quickly to the magically-warmed terrace and slipped into the empty chair. His eyes widened at the full bowl of stew and huge hunk of bread set before him—he’d expected to watch the man eat, then, hopefully, be allowed to finish some of the scraps as he did at every meal with the Death Eaters. This feast was more food in one sitting than he’d had in the past week.

Harry looked at the deputy, trying to work out if this was a trick. Surely as soon as he began to eat, something terrible would happen. Or, perhaps the food was poisoned. If not, it likely came with a great many strings attached.

The man cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

Harry gingerly lifted his spoon and took a small bite… then closed his eyes and choked back a moan. At that moment, he thought it might be the most delicious thing he’d ever had in his mouth. Although spicier than he preferred, the broth was thick and savory and contained tender chunks of meat and vegetables that reminded him of suppers at the Burrow. After just a few bites, his stomach was filled until he thought he would burst, but that didn’t stop him. Whatever price he would have to pay for this seemed worth it at the moment, and he intended to finish every drop.

As he tried eat quietly, struggling not to gulp the food before it could be snatched away, Harry cast furtive glances at the man across the table. The deputy appeared to pay little attention to Harry while he ate his own meal and concentrated on the newspaper spread before him. Harry couldn’t see the pages without being obvious, so he tried to read the man, instead.

Up close, the deputy didn’t look quite so much like Sirius, and he had a more condescending air about him, an aloofness that precluded conversation. Still, something about him seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps he’d escaped from one of the raids? Or his picture had been included in one of the intelligence reports? Harry discounted both thoughts immediately—he would have noticed someone with such a striking resemblance to Sirius. But the notion that he should know this man flitted madly in the fringes of Harry’s mind, like a Snitch that refused to be caught.

“Damn that daft woman.” The deputy’s words startled Harry back to the present. “She didn’t bring out the wine. Go and get it.”

When Harry emerged from the kitchen with the bottle, the deputy absently set his glass out to be refilled. Harry concentrated on making his hands shake a bit as he poured, but when the deputy turned the page, Harry nearly dropped the bottle, slopping wine over the rim of the glass onto the tablecloth and the terrace stones below.

The deputy sprang from his chair. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Can’t you pay attention for two seconds?”

Harry quickly set the bottle on the table and bowed nearly double, no longer having to fake his trembling hands. “Please forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to be so clumsy.”

The last thing he needed was to make this man angry and decide to call for one of the other boys. The deputy was the closest they’d been to Dolohov in months and Harry was determined to stick to him like a plaster.

With an angry growl, the deputy cleaned the mess with a wave of his wand. “Sit! Don’t move again until I say you can!”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

With a final glare, the man went back to reading his newspaper as Harry scrambled into his chair and stared at his hands folded in his lap, willing his heart back to a normal rhythm and his head back into order. The slip could have been costly. At this important stage of the mission, he couldn’t afford to risk everything by forgetting himself like that. But for a moment, what—no, who—he’d seen in the newspaper had sent his head spinning: Ginny.

The two pictures were large and prominently displayed on the front of the sports section. In one, she’d been wearing a Harpies uniform, flying at top speed as she launched a Quaffle at some unseen target. No one had told him that she’d made the team, but that didn’t surprise him as much as the other picture—the one where she was seated in a pub, laughing with a handsome man who had his arm draped over her shoulders.

As the picture reformed itself in Harry’s mind, he gasped aloud at the searing pain that stabbed straight through his heart. When the deputy’s head came up at the sound, Harry ducked his face into his chest and held his breath until the cold stare returned to the paper on the table.

Harry closed his eyes and forced the picture from his mind. He had no right to the pain—it was just the shock of seeing her with no warning that had caused it. They had been finished for nearly a year. He’d chosen his destiny and she’d chosen hers. She had every right to laugh with anyone she wanted. She was no longer his concern.

That’s why, when he’d attended the Victory Day ceremony in Polyjuice form, he had stayed away from the Weasleys and then had cut short his visit with Victoire when Ginny had arrived. They had needed to share their sorrow and joy as a family... a family that he was no longer a part of. He saw no point in dredging up bad feelings or creating an awkward situation by seeing her. Their time was over. He had moved on.

And, apparently, so had she.

“Let’s go.” The deputy abruptly folded his paper and headed for the door. Harry stuffed his thoughts into their assigned compartment and hurried to follow.

The afternoon dragged on in boring repetition as the deputy meticulously made random inspections of the potions shipment and the production facility. He demanded a complete inventory of the storage room and a recount of the potions in every box to be sure nothing had been stolen. The most excitement came when he threatened to force the Potions Master to consume a phial from one suspicious-looking batch to be sure that it met some undefined standard—after a great deal of drama, the batch had been destroyed and the workers pressed into service to make up the loss with the cost coming from the Potion Master’s cut.

Harry’s role throughout the process had been to stand at the deputy’s elbow, available to serve if needed. The problem was, he was never needed and, with too much time to think, his mind kept drifting to the pictures of Ginny. He’d had no time to read even the headline and he couldn’t help wondering what the photo caption and story had said. She must be doing well with the Harpies for her picture to have been in the paper. And she seemed to have got over her fear of the press that Hermione had mentioned in an early letter.

By the time Harry had trudged back to house behind the deputy, he was struggling to prepare his mind for the evening ahead. Although the deputy had seemingly ignored him the entire day, Harry had a feeling that the man was much more aware of the people around him than he appeared and was, no doubt, a much more dangerous and powerful wizard than any of the Death Eaters in the village. Fending off what was sure to come would likely prove much more challenging than anything Harry had dealt with yet. And he still had to decide whether to put a tracking charm on the deputy and let him go so they could follow him back to Dolohov, or to round him up with the others for interrogation.

The evening remained as unsettlingly quiet as the rest of the day. After a silent meal of bread, cheese, fruit, and wine (Harry was surprised that he was again allowed to eat his fill), the deputy settled into one of the armchairs before the fire with a book and a bowl of walnuts that he cracked and ate as he read. Harry stayed as still as possible in the other chair, trying desperately to maintain a ready state of mind, but with the hypnotic crackle of the fire and the random crunch of walnut shells the only sounds in the room, his thoughts soon followed their own path. His eyes repeatedly flicked of their own accord to the newspaper folded on the tea table between the chairs. He didn’t dare ask to read it or try to get a better look at it with the deputy sitting so close, but he found himself working out the best way to steal it when the opportunity presented itself.

After more than an hour, Harry found it increasingly more difficult to sit still. With anticipation of whatever was to come building in his gut, he could stay in his chair no longer.

“Sir?” He carefully made sure his face held the proper amount of fear when the deputy raised his head. “Sir, may—may I go to the toilet?”

The deputy nodded curtly, but Harry could feel the steely cold gaze follow him from the room. Once in the small bathroom off of the kitchen, Harry realized that he really did need the facilities—his body had grown unused to such large quantities of rich food—but he also decided this was a good opportunity to take a dose of Polyjuice Potion. He had some time before the last dose would wear off, but he wasn’t sure he’d have another chance to take it. He hurriedly washed his hands and gave himself a mental shake, forcibly clearing his mind to refocus on his purpose.

As he walked through the kitchen, he could tell that the deputy was no longer sitting in his chair. At the door something flashed before Harry’s face—he caught it without thinking.

Before his brain could register the walnut in his hand, the deputy had shoved Harry against the wall with a forearm to the throat and a wand buried in his cheek. Harry's wand pressed into the deputy’s ribs.

“You smell of Polyjuice,” the deputy snarled.

Harry raised his chin and glared defiantly. Their eyes remained locked in silent battle until the deputy narrowed his and raised one corner of his mouth in an evil smirk.

“Hello, Potter.”

Harry smirked back.

“Hello, Malfoy.”


	32. Loyalties and Liaisons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Malfoy try to work through their trust issues.

“Hello, Potter.”

“Hello, Malfoy.”

Harry’s smirk faded and he shoved Malfoy away. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Malfoy snarled. “You didn’t exactly make my life easy with that stunt you pulled in Bulgaria.”

“Stunt? Dolohov said he’d uncovered a traitor. I thought—”

“If you’d have _really_ thought and just _waited_ for two seconds, you’d have known it wasn’t me, you tosser! I had him convinced it was Travers.”

“AND HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?”

“AND HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO LET YOU KNOW?” Malfoy abruptly stepped away from Harry, folding his arms as if he were trying to keep from throwing a punch. “I handed him to you on a silver platter and you blew it!”

Harry swallowed the denial that rose automatically. He _had_ blown it. In a big way. And he still had nightmares about a boy much like Jani staring blindly into the night sky.

Closing his eyes, Harry drew a ragged breath. “Well, I won’t blow it next time. I swear it.”

“There won’t _be_ any next time, Potter.” The patented Malfoy sneer was in full force.

Harry’s eyes flew open. “What do you mean there won’t be a next time?”

Malfoy growled in frustration. “I mean that when you blew it, you did a bang up job. You drove him underground. He never stays anywhere more than a day, or if he does, he’s not saying where. He summons those of us closest to him the same way Voldemort did and never to the same place twice—” Malfoy shook his head to ward off Harry’s question. “No, he’s not branding the new recruits, but he _is_ making sure those of us who have the mark either remain loyal or don’t exist.”

Harry’s eyes shot to Malfoy’s sleeve-covered left arm. “I always wondered if you really took it.”

“Like I had any choice,” Malfoy sneered.

Harry pressed his lips together and dragged his eyes back to Malfoy’s face. “So when is your next meeting?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Weren’t you listening? We don’t have _meetings_. We have _summonings_. He doesn’t give advance notice... and it’s always at the most bloody inconvenient times.”

“So if he’s not going out and he’s not having regular meetings, how is he running the operation? And why is everyone so scared of him?”

“He turns up at different villages just often enough to make sure everyone knows who’s in charge and keep them terrified, but, mostly, he leaves it to his inner circle to keep everyone in line.”

“His inner circle… you and who else?”

With a sharp bark of humorless laughter, Malfoy cocked an imperious eyebrow. “Why should I tell you anything more, Potter? You’ve bollixed up twice now. If I help you again, Dolohov’s sure to know who did it.”

Harry stared past the unnatural dark curls into the familiar grey eyes. They held anger and a flicker of something that could have been either fear or hope—it was gone too fast to tell, but it was enough to strengthen Harry’s resolve.

“As I recall, Malfoy, _you_ came to _me_ for help.” When Malfoy looked away, the muscle in his jaw twitching, Harry took it as a good sign and plunged forward. “You need me. You can’t do this alone. You need someone on the outside to help you.”

Stormy grey eyes came back to silently challenge him for a short eternity before Malfoy heaved a heavy sigh of defeat and scrubbed his face with his hands. “You’re not going to let this go, are you? I should just blow your cover now and be done with you for good.”

Harry smirked at the relatively easy victory. “Then who would you have to take the piss out of you, Malfoy?”

With another small sigh and an exasperated shake of his head, Malfoy waved his wand toward the kitchen, Summoning a bottle of brandy and two snifters. He motioned toward the armchairs before the fire and sank into one before pouring a generous amount of liquid into each glass and handing one to Harry. Saluting Harry with a weary “cheers,” Malfoy sucked in a mouthful and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed as he savored the liquid on his tongue a moment before swallowing with a quiet groan of pleasure. “At least they had the sense to get the good stuff.”

Harry cupped the glass in his palm and swirled the amber liquid gently to warm it as Katya had taught him. But he didn’t drink—he needed to keep his wits about him tonight.

“You’re doing magic,” Harry said when Malfoy finally opened his eyes again.

“Probation was up in August. They gave my wand back and told me that I’m a free man.” Malfoy smirked into the fire. “Funny, that. I’m free, but they haven’t stopped watching me.”

Harry snorted. “Can’t imagine why.”

Malfoy took another drink and stared toward the flickering flames. Harry gave him a moment before returning to the topic at hand.

“So. The inner circle?”

Malfoy’s eyes remained fixed on some distant vision, his voice was flat, disinterested. “Yaxley. Rowle. Me.”

“Travers?”

“Dead. He was the traitor, remember?”

“Right. Forgot. So, the three of you… you’re managing the operations?”

Malfoy took another sip and leaned his head back against the chair, eyes closed. “Yaxley’s got slavery trafficking. Rowle’s doing the black market sales bit. I’ve got potions.”

Surprised at Malfoy’s sudden compliance, Harry eagerly pushed forward. “We know he’s using villages all over Europe. Can you give me a list of the locations?”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?”

Malfoy opened his eyes and glared at Harry. “Just what it sounds like, Potter. No, I can’t give you a list.”

Harry swore softly. So much for compliance. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” Malfoy growled. “In the first place, I don’t _have_ a list—not a complete one, anyway. We only know about the villages where our own operations are located. And in the second place, I’m not going to give you the ones I know because he’ll know that I gave them to you and I’m not going to put my mother in greater danger just to satisfy your hero complex.”

Harry blinked. “Your mother?”

“He’s got someone with her. Keeping her _safe_ while I perform my duties.” Malfoy’s voice turned bitter. “Safe, my arse. He’ll kill her in a heartbeat if I step one toe out of line. So, no, Potter, I’m not telling you anything. That way, you really _can’t_ blow it again.”

Harry suddenly knew that Narcissa’s safety was the key that could lead him to Dolohov.

“What if I can get her out?”

Malfoy’s eyes remained cold but lit with interest. “How?”

Harry searched frantically for an idea. “We could… we could have her arrested…” Harry held up his hand to stave off Malfoy’s livid retort. “Hang on. Hear me out. I can have the Ministry take her into protective custody, but make it look like she’s been arrested for… for… harboring a known criminal. That’ll keep Dolohov off the trail and your mum will be safe.”

The hope in Malfoy’s eyes flared briefly, then slid once more behind his mask of disdain. “Right. Out of the cauldron and into the fire. She’s probably safer with Dolohov. The Ministry would be only too glad to put my parents together in the Azkaban honeymoon suite, wouldn’t they? And besides, if you ask them for help, they’ll be on to me, and so will Dolohov—he’s got more spies there than Voldemort had. My mother and I both will be dead in a heartbeat and my father with us. I think not, Potter.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I have connections... someone we could trust with anything. And I can have her moved to the old Order of the Phoenix headquarters. It’s the safest place in the world next to Gringott’s and Hogwarts. We can do this, Malfoy. We can help each other.”

Malfoy returned his gaze to the flames as the fire went out of his voice. “Forget it, Potter. You, more than anyone, should know that you can’t change fate. This is mine. Just let it go.”

“But—”

“I said drop it!” Malfoy’s eyes were steely; his hand twitched near his wand.

Harry sank back into his chair, willing to let the topic go for the moment. But even without Malfoy’s consent, Harry was determined to make sure Narcissa was safe... he owed it to her.

Idly swirling his brandy, Harry watched the flames lick the whistling logs. One shifted and a shower of sparks wafted upward into the blackened flue. But for the fire, the silence was complete as Harry and Malfoy brooded, each deep in his own thoughts.

_You, more than anyone, should know that you can’t change fate._

Harry mulled over Malfoy’s words. Did either of them really believe that? Dumbledore had always said that a person’s choices were what made the difference. But in so many things, Malfoy really hadn’t had a choice. His choices had been made by his parents... or at least by his father. Less than a year ago, Malfoy had been desperate to try to change things. Now, he seemed resigned to remain prisoner in a life he obviously hated.

Harry wondered what might be different now if Malfoy had chosen to accept Dumbledore’s offer of help on the Astronomy Tower that night. Or, what would’ve happened if Harry had accepted Malfoy’s hand on that first train ride so many years ago? Would they be friends now? Would Malfoy be working beside Harry against the forces of evil? Or would Harry have joined the Dark side?

“You going to drink that or just play with it all night?”

Malfoy’s sardonic drawl pulled Harry from his musings. Without looking away from the fire, Harry automatically raised the glass to his lips and Vanished a bit of the liquid from it.

“Cute trick, Potter. But your Russian pussycat should’ve taught you to at least _look_ like you’re swallowing. If you’re not really going to drink it, set it down so I can. No point in wasting it.”

Harry ignored the gibe and took a real swallow. “She didn’t teach me that, I worked it out for myself. If I’d drunk every toast at all those ceremonies after the war I’d still be passed out. And you’re the first person who’s ever noticed. Nice observation skills.”

Malfoy waved a blasé hand. “Occupational hazard of growing up with Lucius, Bellatrix, and Voldemort. So what _did_ she teach you? Your Russian pussycat?”

“Don’t call her that. Her name’s Katya and she taught me that things aren’t always as they seem.”

Malfoy snorted. “So was she as good as she looks?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What part of our history makes you think I would even consider having that conversation with you?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Worth a shot, wasn’t it? I could use a bit of vicarious pleasure.”

Harry shook his head in wonder and took another swallow of his drink as they lapsed into companionable silence. Harry wondered if Malfoy had also been struck by the irony of this situation. Who would’ve ever thought that the two of them could sit before a fire sharing civilized conversation and brandy, much less that they could do it while ignoring the fact that they were on different sides of a battle and should be trying to kill each other instead? Ron and Hermione would never believe it... if he could ever tell them… which he couldn’t…

Stretching out his legs, Harry sighed at the surprise he always felt upon seeing the too-long feet at the end of them. He studied the nearly-new leather on the unfamiliar boots for a moment.

“So, when did you know who I was?”

Malfoy’s mouth quirked into a crooked grin. “I knew who you _weren’t_ almost immediately. You’re too controlled. That kid couldn’t sit still if his life depended on it... and believe me sometimes it nearly did. God, he drives me mad. Although, spilling the wine threw me for a bit... that was something he’d have done, for sure. I’d almost decided that maybe you—he was finally growing up and had learnt a bit of control, but something was still off. That’s why I kept you with me, you know. Ordinarily, I’d have left you here all day.”

Harry was gobsmacked. “Really? Why?”

Malfoy flushed a vivid red and averted his eyes quickly as he took a swig from his glass. The drink must have been getting to him—he’d obviously given something away and failed to cover it with his usual flair.

A replay of the day raced through Harry’s mind and his jaw dropped. “Of course! Why didn’t I see it? You’re helping them.”

Malfoy scowled into the flames. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t help them.”

Harry grinned uncontrollably. “Maybe not outright, but you are.” He slid to the edge of his chair and leaned forward in excitement. “You stopped the duel instead of watching it to the end and letting them torture someone. You made sure the workers didn’t have to do an extra shift or miss meals…” He stopped to think through the day’s events. “That was no coincidence that you chose Jani’s mother to collect the ingredients, was it? And you knew good and well that the kitchen lady wouldn’t throw out the cabbage rolls, didn’t you? Actually, the only people you were _really_ horrible to were the Death Eaters and the Potions Master.”

Malfoy gulped down the rest of his drink and refilled his glass with an unsteady hand. “Shut it, Potter, or I’ll shut it for you.” 

Harry leaned back in his chair and cocked his head curiously. “But what I don’t understand is this.” He gestured vaguely to himself and their surroundings. “Why am I here? And why do you Obliviate them?”

Running a hand through his silky black hair, Malfoy groaned. “Merlin, you’re like a fucking Niffler going after Leprechaun gold. Don’t you know I should be cutting out your tongue at this point? Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Oh, come on, Malfoy. We both know you’re not going to do anything to me. And even if you tried, I could take you. Just tell me.”

Malfoy tilted his nose arrogantly. “You could _not_ take me, Potter. And the only reason I’m not going to prove it right now is that I’m too tired and too drunk to bother.”

Harry snorted. “Right. So? Why am I here?”

Malfoy beat his head against the back of the chair and heaved a frustrated breath. “Fine! Dolohov has… expectations… specific ways we’re supposed to indoctrinate the recruits and keep everyone in line.”

“Yeah, I know about that,” Harry muttered.

Malfoy’s eyes went wide. “They didn’t... you weren’t...”

“No,” Harry said with a wry smirk. “Let’s just say I have my ways of managing the situation.”

“You do know I’m supposed to be molesting and torturing you right now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’d worked that much out. Do you usually?”

“No!” The distaste on Malfoy’s face was almost comical.

Understanding washed over Harry like a tidal wave. “But you have to make everyone _think_ you do. And by Obliviating the boys, no one really knows one way or the other.”

Malfoy lifted his glass in acknowledgement of the accurate observation. “It’s all in the presentation, Potter. A little posturing, a little memory loss… and poof! Instant terror. Give people enough to point their dirty little minds in the right direction and they fill in the blanks on their own with things much worse than I could even imagine. As a bonus, Dolohov can’t use his pathetic attempts at Legilimency or a Pensieve to get his perverted jollies.”

“Meanwhile, you’re really giving the boys the only good meals they ever get anymore and a soft bed to sleep in for a change.” Harry shook his head in wonder. “I never would’ve picked you for a soft-hearted git, Malfoy. But I’ll be honest. The _anticipation_ of what might be coming makes it really hard to enjoy the benefits.”

Malfoy broke into the first real smile Harry thought he’d ever seen from him. “Ah, yes. You see, I usually spike their drink with a sleeping potion at dinner so I can have the evening to myself. But I still hadn’t worked out who you were and I needed to watch you for a bit to find out. So, I dragged the anticipation bit out especially for you.”

“Gee, thanks, Malfoy. I’m honored,” Harry said, voice thick with sarcasm. “So, then, what gave me away?”

When the grey eyes flicked to the newspaper on the tea table, Harry felt his face ignite. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“You need to be more careful of your body language, Potter. This afternoon you were too alert, too… composed. That kid has never paid that much attention to anything in his life.”

Harry grunted out a laugh. He hadn’t felt attentive—his mind had been nowhere near the potions lab. But he didn’t tell Malfoy that.

“You were actually more in character with your fidgeting this evening,” Malfoy continued, “but when you couldn’t keep your eyes off the newspaper, I finally realized what made you spill the wine at lunch. And the walnut just confirmed my suspicions; you’re the only one I know who could’ve made a catch like that.”

“How very Slytherin of you.” Harry threw back the last of his brandy and grimaced as the alcohol burned down his throat. Learning to control his reactions had just become his first priority—under different circumstances, this mistake would have cost his life.

Malfoy nudged the newspaper across the table. “Go on. Take it.”

Harry shook his head and firmly fixed his mask of unconcern in place. “That’s okay. I don’t need it.”

Harry forced himself to focus on the fire and maintain his outward air of serenity, even while, inside, he desperately fought the urge to grab the paper and run from the house. Whatever Ginny Weasley was doing was none of his concern and he refused to show such weakness in front of Malfoy.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass and shrugged. “Suit yourself. So, how did you know it was me?”

Harry drew a tiny breath of relief at the change of subject. “I didn’t until you said you could smell the Polyjuice. It was the sound of your voice and your eyes, actually. That close, I could finally see past the disguise.” Harry gave a little laugh. “Did you know you look like Sirius Black? That’s what threw me off. Something about you seemed _so_ familiar, but I kept thinking it was the resemblance to Sirius.”

“Didn’t exactly intend it that way, but it’s not such a bad thing, I suppose.” Holding up the bottle, Malfoy offered Harry more brandy. When Harry shook his head to decline, Malfoy refilled his own glass as he spoke. “Black had quite the reputation for viciousness throughout Europe, so the resemblance works in my favor in other ways, too.” He considered Harry for a moment. “So how is it? The Polyjuice? I’ve never used it. Don’t much fancy being in someone else’s body, you know.”

Harry shrugged. “A bit weird, but I don’t think about it much anymore. I can hardly remember the last time I was in my own body. I guess the worst part is that the owls can’t find me and I miss letters from home sometimes.”

“Ahhhh. So that’s what happened.”

“What?”

“My mother sent you a letter a few months ago—just before my probation ended. When it came back unopened, she thought you were thumbing your nose at us.”

Harry bolted upright. “I’d never do that! What did she want?”

Malfoy’s jaw flexed and he looked back towards the fire. “Doesn’t matter. It’s too late now.”

“Malfoy, I—”

“I said it doesn’t matter.” Malfoy’s voice was cold; the mellow conversation had ended.

Harry slumped back into his chair. “We need to work out a way to keep in touch.”

“We have no need to keep in touch. I told you, we’re done.” The words were icy sharp.

Harry could tell he shouldn’t argue more now, but he refused to give up. Perhaps Malfoy would be more reasonable at breakfast... once he was sober. The effects of the alcohol were beginning to show, although Malfoy seemed far less inebriated than he should, given the amount he’d consumed. The man could definitely hold his drink.

“So what’s next?” Harry asked.

“What’s next,” Malfoy repeated thoughtfully as he studied the light from the fire through the swallow of brandy left in his glass. “Well, next, I’m going to finish this.” He held up the bottle that was two-thirds empty. “And after that, I’m going to bed to sleep it off. I would presume that you’re going to bed, too.” He thought about the words a moment and added, “But not with me.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Harry said with a wry grin, then grew quickly serious. “But what about tomorrow?”

Malfoy raised his glass and spoke with a flourish, “’Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.’*” He swirled his drink back to his lap. “I heard that somewhere once. Might’ve been from Voldemort.” After draining the last of the brandy from his glass, he stared wistfully into the fire. “Go to bed, Potter. I don’t want to think anymore right now.”

Harry sighed. He would get no further with Malfoy tonight. “Which room is mine?”

Malfoy waved vaguely toward the other side of the room at a door set into the wall of bookcases.

“And how do I know you won’t sneak in and molest or torture me during the night?” Harry couldn’t resist asking.

Malfoy considered him seriously for a moment. “Molest? I’ll pass, thanks. You’re not my type. Torture? Hmmm. You might want to put up a couple of protection charms.”

Harry rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom. As he came back through the kitchen and headed for his room, Malfoy emerged from the door next to the fireplace and thrust a silky bundle at Harry.

“I must be really drunk to give this back. Bloody useful, it’s been.” Malfoy returned to his chair and bottle without waiting for a response.

Staring in wide-eyed wonder at the silvery cloth in his arms, Harry nearly choked on the emotion that closed his throat. The last time he’d seen his father’s Invisibility Cloak had been in Bulgaria nearly a year ago... he’d thought it lost forever. Raising his eyes, he blinked rapidly at the blurry sight of Malfoy brooding at the fire. Harry had to make a couple of tries to get his voice to work, and even then it came out as only a hoarse whisper.

“Malfoy—”

“Sod off, Potter. I said I’m done for tonight.” Malfoy never took his eyes from the flames as he downed another mouthful of liquor.

Harry remained still, searching for a way to express the overwhelming gratitude that threatened to make his chest explode. But Malfoy had closed himself off, determined to act as though nothing momentous had happened. After a few moments of watching him, trying to think of anything adequate to say, Harry conceded defeat and backed slowly into his room, closing the door gently behind him. He decided not to set the protection charms... even with Moody screaming “constant vigilance” in his head, right now, the only way Harry could think to convey his feelings was simply to trust Malfoy.

Eyes burning with unshed tears, Harry lovingly ran trembling fingers through the folds of fabric that caressed his hand like a pool of water. The cloak was a valuable artifact in its own right, but to Harry it was so much more. He rubbed it along his cheek as a child would cuddle a security blanket... which was exactly what it had become to Harry. Through the years, it had provided not only safety from danger, but a cherished link to his parents. No one else could really understand its true value… except, perhaps, Malfoy, or he never would have given it back.

Harry looked back at the closed door and tried to puzzle out the boy—the man—on the other side. When Malfoy had come just over a year ago, begging for help, Harry had sensed a difference in him. Oh, he was still a pompous git, but for the first time since Harry had met him, he’d been willing to expose his vulnerable side... the side that loved his mother and would do anything to help her. And even now, he had shown a compassion to Dolohov’s victims of which Harry would never have believed him capable. Had the war and fear for his mother really changed him that much? Or was it all an elaborate ruse to suck Harry in and turn him over to Dolohov? Harry looked down at the cloak in his arms. This was the second time that Malfoy had returned it. Surely, he wouldn’t hand over Harry’s greatest protection if he intended harm, would he?

With a snap of his wrists, Harry unfurled the fabric like an ocean wave to drape over his shoulders... something fell from the folds to the floor. He froze as Ginny’s image leaped at him from the folded newspaper like a Pensieve memory.

The cloak suddenly forgotten, Harry dropped to his knees and tried to remember how to breathe as he focused on the photo, watching her toss the Quaffle over and over with that look of blazing determination in her eyes that he remembered so well... that look that meant she was pouring everything she had into what she was doing. That look that had been directed at him so many times. That look that instantly submerged him into a sea of memories that he thought he’d dammed off: when they’d kissed for the first time in the common room… when they’d made love in the Room of Requirement… when she’d asked him to promise that he wasn’t throwing himself into danger…­

Sinking to the floor, he leaned against the bed and lifted the paper with trembling hands. The headline shot a thrill of pride through him:

**_Weasley Hits a Bull’s-eye in First Starting Match_ **

**_as Harpies Shoot Down the Arrows_ **

For the first time, he realized that he wasn’t reading through the Translation Charm and that the words were in English (he might’ve been onto Malfoy sooner if he’d noticed before). Checking the header to verify that this was, indeed, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , he opened out the paper and spread it over his partially invisible legs. Carefully keeping his eyes away from the other picture at the bottom of the page, he eagerly began to read:

> _After struggling all season with injuries and poor performances by its long-invincible starting line-up, the Holyhead Harpies seemed to break their 12-match losing streak Saturday with a 390-250 win over the Appleby Arrows._
> 
> _Harpies’s starting Chaser Roz Collier has been off her game this year, leaving Flo Traylor to take up the slack with Valmai Morgan, who has often been treated as an unwelcome third wheel by the dynamic duo. But when reserve newcomer Ginny Weasley, a recruit out of Hogwarts this year, was tapped yesterday to fill in for the ailing Collier, Harpies’s fans got a preview of what may be the most outstanding lineup in team history._
> 
> _Morgan and Weasley proved to be an unbeatable combination, leaving no doubt that this powerhouse duo could lead the Harpies to the League Cup. Morgan, already known for her record-setting ten goals in her first outing as starter at the beginning of the season (in spite of snubs by Traylor and Collier), played brilliantly off of Weasley’s assists to double that record against the Arrows. Meanwhile, Weasley pocketed eight goals of her own, literally flying circles around both teams. And the pair seemed more than willing to make it a threesome, tossing Traylor the Quaffle often enough to score one short of a dozen more goals._
> 
> _With Keeper Pearl Salter and Beaters Gwenog Jones and Polly Spinks keeping the Arrows off kilter, Seeker Zoe Hargest’s heart-breaking, hard-fought loss of the Snitch had no bearing on the outcome of the game._

Harry skimmed the play-by-play description, stopping to savor each mention of Ginny’s significant role in the victory. The remainder of the story recounted Morgan’s Quidditch career, then discussed Ginny’s not completely unexpected success as a rookie.

> _After a disastrous first Hogwarts match in the autumn and then very nearly ending her Quidditch career in a flying accident…_

Harry snorted—at least they hadn’t got hold of the real story.

> _…Weasley led her Gryffindor team to easy victories in the final two matches to secure the School Cup. Touted by scouts as the next Catriona McCormack (who played Chaser for the Scottish National Team thirty-six times), Weasley received offers from every team by the end of the school year._ _But as an untested rookie, her cheeky negotiations with the Harpies for a lucrative first-reserve position that included guaranteed playing time and an optional second year at her own discretion…_

“Go, Ginny,” Harry murmured.

> … _drew criticism from fans and players alike. Critics are eating their words now. If her first outing doesn’t prove to be a fluke, she’ll no doubt have every team back at her door with even better offers at the end of this season._
> 
> _Traylor and Collier have been a fixture with the Harpies for nearly two decades, taking it in turns to break their own league records multiple times over the years. But Collier’s unprecedented poor showing this year has left fans and opponents speculating that her days with the team are numbered, especially with rumors flying about the cause of her reported “illness.” Will Captain Jones give her close friend Collier another chance? Or does she want the Cup badly enough to shake up the status quo and give Weasley her big break? We’ll keep you posted._

The warm feeling in Harry’s chest cooled quickly to ice as his gaze fell to the photo at the end of the story. Without the element of surprise to blame, he could no longer explain away the searing pain of seeing her with another wizard—the acid burn seeped through the raw emotions already exposed by the return of his cloak. If emotional onslaught was Malfoy’s latest experiment in torture, it was working brilliantly.

In spite of the agony, Harry couldn’t keep his eyes from returning to the endless picture loop: Ginny’s image smiled as the man beside her leaned close to whisper something in her ear; she threw her head back in a joyous laugh at whatever he had said.

Trying to remember the last time _he’d_ made her laugh like that, Harry felt a vicious spear of satisfaction that she wasn’t with Dean before he reluctantly dropped his eyes to the caption beneath the photo. He reminded himself that this was the _Prophet_ and that he should probably disregard at least half, if not all, of what the vultures had to say…

> _Harpies Chaser Ginny Weasley joined team equipment manager Liam O’Leary at the Glowing Goblet for a celebration of her stellar performance in her first full game. The couple has been seen together frequently in the past month at Wizarding pubs throughout Britain. Has Miss Weasley finally chosen someone to replace the Chosen One in her affections?_

Harry’s defenses crumbled and the words hit their mark. Eyes closed, he groaned in pain as a voice in his head—the one that sounded too much like Hermione—shouted at him: _you should be happy for her… you should be happy for her… you should be happy for her…_ He supposed, deep down (if he looked really hard), he _was_ happy for her. But he definitely wasn’t happy for himself and he wanted to blast that bloke for touching her.

The monster in his chest leapt into attack mode, roaring _mine!mine!mine!_

 _But you walked away_ , his Hermione-head-voice reminded him.

 _No, she pushed me away and her family wouldn’t let me talk to her,_ the monster growled.

 _She asked for time,_ Hermione answered.

_I gave her time… I gave her bloody forever._

_So, remind me again why you’re whinging?_

Harry let the newspaper slide through his fingers to the floor and dropped his face into his hands with a strangled sob. So much had happened since he’d left. At the time, he’d known without a doubt that leaving was the right thing to do, but now… now, the reasons weren’t quite as clear.

His hand went automatically to the mokeskin pouch that hung around his neck. He hadn’t looked at the ring she’d returned since he’d put it into the magical bag and the words of her letter had long-since been burned from his memory, but he remembered clearly that she didn’t want him, that she couldn’t handle his life as an Auror.

Their last conversation in the Room of Requirement—the one he _couldn’t_ forget—replayed itself in his head…

_“Do you want me to stop?”_

_“Can you? I don’t think you know how.”_

_“I can. I will.”_

_“Honestly, Harry. Do you_ honestly _believe that?”_

_“Yes, I do! I love you! I’ll do whatever it takes to—”_

_“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harry! Are you going to stop breathing, too?”_

_“Ginny, please…”_

_He reached for her. She stepped out of reach._

_“What do you want me to do?”_

_“I don’t know. I... don’t think I can be what you...”_

_“I don’t need you to_ be _anything, Ginny. I just need...”_

 _“_ Stop! _Just stop! You don’t understand. I can’t_ do _this! You don’t know what it’s like to sit around and wait and wonder, trying so hard to believe… I was scared out of my mind... I didn’t know where you were or what they were doing to you… And I couldn’t do anything... I couldn’t do anything but wait…”_

_“Please, Ginny… We can work this out. I know we can…”_

_“How? How can we work it out, Harry?”_

_“I said I’d stop…”_

_“You can’t! You might mean that now, but something will come up. It always does... just like this time. You promised! You promised not to do something dangerous and then you did it anyway!”_

_“I told you I didn’t think... ”_

_“That’s right! You didn’t_ think _! You always act first, Harry, and think later. I just can’t_ live _with that…”_

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? She’d been right. He could no longer imagine not doing what he’d been doing for nearly a year. He was an Auror to the bone.

No matter what she felt for him, she just couldn’t live with that.

And so that was that.

Fate had chosen him for this when he was a year old and had decreed that he and Ginny weren’t meant to be. Just like Malfoy had said, Harry knew better than anyone that he couldn’t change fate. Moving on had been the right thing to do.

So why did it still hurt so bloody much?

With an effort, Harry carefully refolded the newspaper, then secured the armor back in place around his heart and resealed the lid on the box in his mind where his memories were locked away. He’d come to terms with his lot in life years ago and had learned not to waste time longing for things he couldn’t have. Ginny had moved on. The time had come for Harry to finally do the same…for good.

***

_Her supple curves draped over him like silk… soft kisses trailed his collarbone… a smooth thigh rubbed deliciously between his… cool fingers ran through his hair, down his neck, over his shoulders, down his ribs, lower, lower, teasing their way toward the engorged ache next to her hip…_

_Harry moaned her name, jerking his hips, begging for release._

_Suddenly, she pushed him away and seemingly Apparated to the fireplace, fully-clothed, arms crossed, back turned._

_“Ginny? What’s wrong?”_

_“I can’t live with this, Harry.”_

_“No!” In a panic, he sprang from the bed and knelt naked at her feet. “Please, Ginny, please don’t send me away.”_

_“Harry, you promised!” Her eyes that had been warm welcoming chocolate only seconds before were now brittle flint, reflecting the hurt and betrayal she felt. “You said it wasn’t dangerous. You lied. I can’t live with this.”_

_“I didn’t mean to. Ginny, please, I’ll quit. I’ll do anything. Please…” he sobbed openly._

_She pointed toward the open door. He scrabbled for purchase on the stone floor as some invisible force in the dark chasm beyond the room began to suck him away. Fighting desperately to stay near her, he begged over and over, “Please, Ginny, please. I love you. Don’t do this…” His fingers left bloody trails across the floor as he grabbed vainly for anything to hold onto._

_“You said it wasn’t dangerous. You lied. I can’t live with this… I can’t live with this… I can’t live with this… I can’t…” Her words echoed in his head and he screamed her name as the darkness swallowed him._

Harry jerked awake and sat bolt upright, trying to get his bearings in the blurry, grey-lit room. The pounding in his head kept rhythm with the throbbing in his groin and his heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest. He swiped at the moisture in his eyes and looked around to be sure Ginny wasn’t still in the room.

Even though part of his brain knew she’d never really been there to begin with, when he realized that she was gone, the hollow where his heart used to be seized with the deep pain of loss. Gasping for air through a strangled sob, he fell back against the pillows and into his all-too-familiar routine for chasing the demon back into its cage. But the cleansing breaths and clenching muscles seemed to be doing little to ease the raging need of his body and soul. This was the first time in months that he’d dreamed of her... it had seemed so real that he could still feel her warmth on his skin.

His brain sluggishly fought toward consciousness and the questions assaulted him. Why now? What had brought her back so vividly all of a sudden?

Memory of the previous night crashed in.

Harry sat up again, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to clear the remaining fog from his brain. Sleep had been elusive last night. No matter how decisively he’d pushed away his thoughts of Ginny, they’d refused to stay locked up. Every time he’d closed his eyes, the picture of her laughing with her equipment manager had shone brightly behind his lids and spawned increasingly outrageous fantasies of exactly how Harry would manage her “equipment” if she’d just give him a chance. In the end, he’d only managed a couple of hours of sleep, and those had been filled with erotic nightmares.

The clock on the bedside table glowed six-thirty; the gloom beyond the window promised a day to match Harry’s mood.

He reached into his pouch for his bottle of Polyjuice (the last dose would wear off soon) and the date of the newspaper on the table caught his eye: November 14, 1999: the one-year anniversary of that last conversation with Ginny. That answered the ‘Why now?’ question. With an angry swipe, Harry shoved the paper to the floor along with his memories and longings... he couldn’t allow himself to let flights of fancy distract him. He had a job to do.

Swallowing the last of his Polyjuice Potion, he realized he’d have to find a way to get more soon. But perhaps not. The raid would happen today and, with luck, Jani and his mother would be reunited and Harry could move on to the next village and the next persona.

But what to do about Malfoy?

Flinging back the covers, Harry rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching and yawning before snatching his robes from the floor and quickly throwing them on to ward off the chill of the room. He flicked a lazy finger at the fireplace to ignite a cheerful blaze and wandered to the window to stare at the grey drizzle as he pondered the question.

What to do about Malfoy?

Before that startling discovery, Harry had decided to capture the deputy rather than marking him with a tracking charm. Under the influence of Veritaserum, such a high-ranking officer could surely give them a great deal of valuable information.

But now that he knew the deputy’s identity, Harry was torn. If Malfoy was telling the truth, he had already divulged the basics of Dolohov’s operations and made it clear that Dolohov trusted no one with the full scheme of things. Taking Malfoy in might not yield anything new and would certainly blow his cover for future intelligence gathering.

But, in spite of his seeming reluctance to play his Death Eater role, Malfoy also seemed less willing to play Ministry spy. Harry wasn’t sure letting him go would bring them closer to Dolohov, either.

Another plan popped from nowhere into Harry’s mind. Without a second thought, he drew his wand and sent his stag bounding into the dreary forest with a message for Ingalls and Summers: _Raid at nine. Bring all remaining Polyjuice._

Suddenly energized with renewed purpose, Harry stuffed his Invisibility Cloak into his pocket and his pouch under his robes as he paced the room in anticipation. All thoughts of Ginny were finally locked safely away as he began to work through his plan and prepare his mind for the opposition he was sure to meet. By the time Malfoy shouted to summon him to breakfast, Harry felt calm and determined, assured he’d decided on the best course of action and confident he could convince Malfoy to go along.

Harry slipped into character and shuffled quietly to the table on the terrace. The woman from the kitchen frowned and looked like she wanted to say something when she first saw his face. He supposed his sleepless night had left him looking haggard enough to confirm her worst fears. He tried to convey with a look that he was okay, but she threw a fearful glance at Malfoy and scurried back into the kitchen and out of the house.

Harry watched her go, hoping she wouldn’t say anything to upset Jani’s mother and wishing he could tell her that before lunchtime she and her family and friends would be free to return to their lives. But the news would have to wait. He dropped his eyes back to his plate and peered across the table through his lashes. Malfoy ignored him in favor of the newspaper. The mellow almost-friend of the night before had disappeared and the cold deputy had returned. Harry watched him carefully, waiting for the right moment to speak.

“So, what’s the plan this morning?” he finally asked when Malfoy had folded the paper and poured himself another cup of tea.

Malfoy took his time, stirring cream and sugar into his cup with meticulous care before giving Harry a hard stare.

“I suppose we have a number of options. I could kill you right now. I could leave you stunned for the Death Eaters to find you after the Polyjuice wears off; that might be fun… for them. I could Stun you and leave you in the woods for your mates to find you.” He shrugged. “I’m sure I could think of a few more things. What did you have in mind?”

Harry smirked. “Several things along those same lines, but for you, of course, only not the killing... unless you forced me. But I came up with a better idea this morning.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows in question as he took a sip of tea.

“Take me with you.”

Malfoy sputtered tea across the table. “WHAT?!”

“Take me with you... when you escape the raid. I’ll get a supply of Polyjuice and go along as a recruit you rescued.”

Malfoy shoved his chair back and stood as it clattered to the ground. “That’s the most harebrained scheme I ever heard. And besides, I don’t rescue recruits.”

“Fine, then say I begged you to take me along or that you want to train me yourself for ‘special duties.’” Harry used his fingers to make air quotes around the last two words. “Come on, Malfoy, you’re clever. Come up with plausible story. Then, the next time Dolohov summons you, I can get to him.”

“No! He might not summon me again for weeks, months even. What happens when you run out of Polyjuice? You’ll get us both killed and my parents, too.”

Returning Malfoy’s glare with a solemn stare, Harry’s voice grew thick with sincerity. “I won’t. I swear it. Your mother will be safe within the week and I’d be willing to pledge my life to save yours. I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow, if you want.” The words were out before Harry realized he was going to say them, but he held Malfoy’s eyes without flinching. If this were what it would take to get Dolohov, he’d do it.

Malfoy ran a hand through his dark curls and growled in frustration. “You’re mad! Absolutely, completely, utterly barking!”

Harry quirked one side of his mouth. “And this is news?”

Malfoy threw up his hands and walked into the house. Harry followed and waited quietly just inside the door as Malfoy stared out into the gloom through the front window. For several long moments, the crackling fire was the only sound in the room.

“Who would serve as bonder?” Malfoy asked without turning around.

“I have someone nearby who could do it.”

Harry registered the slight tensing in Malfoy’s stance and automatically grasped his wand, keeping it close to his side in the folds of his robe. Malfoy turned, also keeping his hand close to his side. Although his expression gave no hint of possible attack, Harry flexed his fingers in readiness.

“I still don’t understand why you would do this.” Malfoy’s voice had become smooth, hypnotic—the similarity to Snape’s silky tones made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. “Why would you go to such extremes for me, for my mother?”

Harry squared his shoulders. “I’ve told you... we need each other to stop Dolohov. But we seem to have some lingering trust issues. This is the best way I know to deal with it.”

“Lingering trust issues. Hmph! Maybe I don’t want to stop Dolohov anymore.”

“After our discussion last night, I don’t believe that.”

“Perhaps I was lying last night.”

“Perhaps you weren’t.”

The conversation ground into a stony silence as they stared across the room.

Malfoy moved.

Harry mirrored him a split second too late and his wand went flying. He cast a wandless Stupefy that went wide, then dropped to the floor as Malfoy’s second spell whizzed past his shoulder. The couch blocked him as he tried to roll away from the third.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!”

Frozen in place, Harry stared in anger at the frowning face looming over him. _Déjà vu_ washed over him; they weren’t on a train and the hair was different, but the piercing silver glare was the same. He expected the boot to crash into his nose at any moment.

Malfoy just gave him a grim smile. “Thanks for the offer, Potter, but I just can’t take the chance. I really am very sorry to have to do this.”

Harry’s brain screamed in frustration and fear as the wand tip dug into his temple.

“ _Obliviate_.”

 ~~~~~

*Matt. 6:34, KJV


	33. Something That Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny looks for escape but finds something to do with herself instead.

Diagon Alley was more crowded than usual.

Ginny drew back into the shadows of the alleyway and frowned at the bustling street, wondering if she should go back to get her hooded cloak; she’d draw much less attention if she hid her hair. But the day was gloriously warm for the middle of April and she really needed to feel the sun on her face to try and burn away the shadows that always crept in on her this time of year.

This time of year… ah, yes! _That’s_ why the street was so crowded—Easter hols for Hogwarts.

Ginny’s scowl deepened at the disruption of her routine. She had known it was bound to happen eventually, but she’d come to enjoy being able to walk about mostly unnoticed. In the four months she’d lived over Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, the other shopkeepers and regular customers on Diagon Alley had grown accustomed to her Monday morning ritual and either just gave a friendly wave or ignored her altogether. Even most of the press had given up watching (from a safe distance thanks to the protective charms) for signs of a wild lifestyle or a parade of amorous wizards (or witches) through her door. And to her great relief, even requests for autographs and pictures from fans had become few and far between when she was in her own territory.

She shifted the heavy bag on her arm and let out a wistful sigh. She’d decided nearly two years ago that she wouldn’t let anyone else—family, friends, fans, or foes—dictate her life any longer. Of course, that had meant accepting the inconveniences of her chosen career along with the benefits, but she didn’t have to like it. In a well-practiced move, she closed her eyes and drew several deep breaths, seeking the calm place in her mind. After a moment, with her fears and emotions back under control, she set out determinedly toward Madam Malkin’s, making an effort to keep her head held high and her steps unhurried.

She almost made it.

“Sarah! Look!”

Ginny paused with her hand on the latch and winced at the ear-piercing squeal (from Sarah, no doubt) that followed. At the patter of feet on the cobblestones and with only a flicker of disappointment at being caught, Ginny turned with a ready smile. The young fans really were her favorites.

She watched the two girls running towards her. Looking to be maybe twelve or thirteen, Sarah (or at least the one wringing her hands and turning red in the face to keep from squealing) had dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes; her friend’s hair and eyes were the color of dark chocolate. They both wore French braids and oversized green Weasley jumpers, Sarah’s with a Quaffle and the other girl’s with the Harpies logo—a fashion trend among her young fans, sparked by Ginny’s regular gameday hairstyle and an unfortunate photo of her pre-game attire when she’d become a starter. Ginny still couldn’t understand the phenomenon, which showed no sign of waning, but it had paid off well for her mother since Madam Malkin had pleaded for a supply of jumpers to meet the demand two Christmases ago.

“ _OhMerlinOhMerlinOhMerlin_. It’s really you. I was so cheesed off at mum for getting me up so early, but now I’m... oh, it’s you, I can’t believe it—”

“Sa-rah! Get a grip!”

Ginny bit her lip to keep from laughing at Sarah (who had disintegrated into incoherent babbling and incessant bouncing) and redirected her gaze to the calmer girl.

“Please forgive my friend,” the dark-haired girl said with a solemn nod and another elbow to Sarah’s ribs. “She’s easily excited.”

“No problem. I get the same way myself sometimes.” Ignoring their twin looks of disbelief, Ginny smiled at the blonde. “You must be Sarah?” Sarah squeaked and bounced harder at the sound of her name. Ginny shared a grin with the dark-haired girl. “So, what’s your name?”

The girl threw back her shoulders proudly. “I’m Abigail. Abigail Vane. President of the Ginny Weasley Fanclub at Hogwarts. I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally meet you.”

Ginny almost bit her tongue in two to keep from laughing out loud at the irony. She only just managed to keep her face straight as she asked, “Vane? I went to school with a girl named Romilda Vane. Are you related to her?”

With a snort, Abigail wrinkled her nose. “She’s my snotty cousin.” Her eyes went wide. “Oh! Are you friends?”

With a smirk, Ginny shook her head. “No. Not so much.”

Abigail nodded sagely. “Believe me, I understand.”

Thinking it best to change the subject, Ginny looked at Sarah. “What house are you in? Do you play Quidditch?”

Sarah closed her eyes and wrung her hands frantically, but managed to answer in a high, squeaky voice. “We’re in Hufflepuff.”

When Sarah couldn’t seem to force out any more recognizable words, Abigail rolled her eyes and took over. “We aren’t on the team, yet, but I’m going to try out next year. We’ll be in third year and I’ve been practicing all of your moves.” Cupping her hand next to her mouth, she leaned toward Ginny and dropped her voice to a loud whisper. “Sarah’s been practicing, too, but I think it’ll be a year or two before she makes the team.”

“I was in my fourth year before I made the Gryffindor team,” Ginny whispered in the same conspiratorial tone.

Abigail straightened and smiled smugly. “I know. I know everything about you. Everything!”

Ginny gave her a soft, sad smile, but didn’t correct her. Very few people knew _everything_ about her.

“Are those new jumpers?” Sarah had pulled out of her frenzy long enough to point at the knitted sleeve spilling over the top of the bag on Ginny’s arm.

“Yes. I’m delivering them to Madam Malkin. My mum makes them, you know.”

Both girls’ eyes lit with excitement. “Did she make any with a Golden Snitch?” Abigail asked. “I’d really love to have one with a Snitch.”

Ginny shook her head with a smile. “I think a couple have dragons on them, but sorry, no Snitches.”

Abigail poked out her lip and her voice came out in a little whinge. “But, why? That’s the one _everyone_ wants. Your mum could make _millions_ if she made only those.”

With a sigh, Ginny repeated her official line on the subject. “That was a special jumper my mum made several years ago. I just like keeping that one for myself. It’s my good luck charm.” No one outside of family needed to know _who_ the jumper had been made for.

“But why a Snitch?” Sarah came briefly back to sanity again and gestured toward the front of her own jumper. “You play Chaser. Why not a Quaffle?”

Abigail huffed impatiently. “I told you already, Sarah. Ginny played Seeker sometimes when she was at school. She was the back-up for Harry Potter.”

Ginny deftly held in her flinch at the sound of Harry’s name as the sudden pop of a camera flash triggered her irritation again. She quickly smothered the anger and made sure her cloak was securely fastened over her clothes before turning a tight smile on the man standing in the middle of the street with a cloud of purple smoke over his head.

“Hello, Jasper.”

“Wotcher, Ginny. Let’s have another shot of you and the young ladies.”

Ginny stepped between the two girls and put her arms around their shoulders, setting Sarah off in a new fit of bouncing and suppressed squealing as Ginny and Abigail gave Jasper cheeky smiles. The commotion had attracted attention and Ginny spent the next twenty minutes signing autographs for fans young and old while Jasper clicked away. When the last scrap of parchment had been signed, she turned quickly back to the shop door in the vain hope that she could avoid the inevitable.

“Oi, Ginny! Missed you at the Glowing Goblet Saturday night after the match. You and Liam havin’ troubles?”

Growling to herself, Ginny fixed the smile back on her face before she turned again to face him. Jasper grinned through his flabby jowls and tugged at his too-tight robes, seemingly pleased with his effort to catch her off-guard.

With an exaggerated eye-roll, Ginny struck a flirtatious pose—Fleur had taught her well. “You ask me that every time I see you, Jasper. Makes me wonder if you’re waiting for a chance to make a move of your own.”

Jasper’s smile shifted into a leer. “I wouldn’t pass up a chance to have a go with you, luv.”

Ginny painted a look of shock on her face to hide her revulsion. “With me? Oh! I thought you were after Liam!”

As Jasper’s expression melted into horror, Ginny gave him a sassy wink and ducked into the shop, which, like many on Diagon Alley, had followed George’s example and set reporter-repelling charms.

“Oh, Ginny, I’m so glad you’re here,” Madam Malkin called from across the shop. “Come and tell me how you want this.”

The tension in Ginny’s shoulders melted away as she chatted amiably with Madam Malkin about the finishing touches for the copper-colored formal robes she’d ordered for the Quidditch League awards banquet. Even though she was certain she couldn’t possibly win the Most Valuable Player Award two years in a row, the press would be there and she and Madam Malkin wanted the robes to be perfect.

“You really must let me pay you, this time,” Ginny said when they’d worked out the design for the jewel-like stones at the neck and waist.

The squat shopkeeper shook her head. “No, I’ve told you before. I’ll get more than enough orders to pay for this design once the pictures from the banquet run in the press. I couldn’t buy that kind of advertising. Just be sure to let everyone know where you got it.”

Ginny smiled in defeat at the argument that occurred every time she placed an order, especially for a major event. Madam Malkin had always been good to the Weasleys, often giving Molly a “quantity discount” on school robes for the older boys, so Ginny had thought it only fair to continue buying at the shop once she had money of her own. When her clothing choices had turned into fashion statements, Ginny had been pleased at the unanticipated benefit for Madam Malkin and had spurned similar offers from Twilfit & Tatting's and Gladrags Wizardwear.

“All right, I’ll let you have your way this time,” Ginny said, “but next time, I’m paying.” As Madam Malkin huffed in her usual feigned offense, Ginny peeked out of the front window and sighed. “Jasper’s still out there. May I use the Floo?”

The shopkeeper gave a distracted wave as she turned back to her work. “Of course, dearie. You know where it is.”

Tossing her thanks over her shoulder, Ginny made her way to the office at the back of the shop. Considering her early experiences with them, Ginny got on surprisingly well with the press these days. Thanks to Gwenog’s support, Fleur’s coaching, and Ginny’s efforts to be sure her moves on the pitch were much more exciting than her personal life, the press respected her no-personal-questions rule... well, most of them did.

Jasper Jinks, veteran Quidditch reporter for the _Prophet_ , had decided to make a name for himself by trying to uncover Ginny’s secrets—and barring that, he and several other reporters perpetually tried to outdo one another in making some up for her. Fleur constantly reminded Ginny that snubbing or arguing with them (using a Bat Bogey Hex would be so much more satisfying) would only give them ammunition, so Ginny avoided them when she could and offered flirtatious insults when she couldn’t.

Today, avoidance was the key. This was the only day of the week she could truly call her own and she didn’t fancy having a rabid reporter muck up her plans. In a move that somehow never failed to work on thick-headed Jasper, Ginny Disillusioned herself, took the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, and slipped onto Charring Cross Road. Zig-zagging across the streets of Soho, she stuffed her cloak into her bag (now transfigured back into its chic Gucci form) and checked frequently to be sure no one was following.

Once she emerged, visible again, onto Oxford Street, she finally felt able to relax. The day was still young, so the crowds were relatively thin, but not so much that she couldn’t lose herself quickly. Here, with her skinny, worn jeans tucked into slim-heeled ankle boots, lacey peasant top drooping off one shoulder, and wide belt slung low on her hips, she looked like just another fashionable nineteen-year-old Muggle making her way from shop to shop.

This was her escape, the answer to the restless hunger that gnawed at her when she wasn’t on her broom on her two days off. Sundays were filled with family at the Burrow, but Mondays had proved harder to bear with nothing to distract her. When she’d first joined the Harpies, she’d solved the problem by spending the better part of the day at the practice field running drills by herself. But after a couple of weeks, Gwenog had caught her and, with a stern lecture about overtaxing her muscles and finding balance in her life, had threatened suspension if she flew on her days off.

For months, Ginny had bounced about trying to find something to fill the interminable hours. Everyone she knew had jobs that kept them busy on Mondays—George had no need of extra help at his shops (three now, including the newest in Dublin), Ron and Neville were in the thick of Auror training, Hermione was working her way through the ranks in the Ministry, and Luna was off somewhere hunting down mythical magical creatures. Of course while Ginny was still living at the Burrow, her mother had tried to fill the time with chores, so she escaped as often as possible to go and play with Teddy or Victoire. But those activities could distract her for only a couple of hours before the restlessness rose again like a great cat, prowling in the pit of her gut.

And then the whole world had turned upside down. Roz had showed up pissed out of her mind just minutes before the Appleby game, Gwenog had put Ginny in as a starter, and the press had become relentless. Thanks to Fleur and Healer Andrews, Ginny had been better prepared to handle it this time, but sometimes things still got out of hand. One particularly annoying day, in a bid to lose a couple of persistent reporters, Ginny had left the confines of Diagon Alley and found her way into the crowds on Oxford Street. Only then had she remembered Harry talking about wandering through the Muggle parts of the city to find peace after the war.

And so, Muggle London had become her escape, too.

Ginny stopped at the corner across from that big store with those things ( _confusers, Hermione had said_ ) that Muggles use in place of magic, and waited for the traffic light so she could cross without having to hex an idiot driver. She smiled at the couple waiting with her, squabbling about what film to rent for the evening.  

Apparently the only Weasley child to inherit her father’s love of all things Muggle, Ginny had quickly adapted to the bright, shiny world beyond her sheltered upbringing. In the beginning, she’d simply wandered for hours, gawking at all of the amazing sights. Then one day, she’d sat down in a café to rest and had overheard a group of girls who looked to be her age talking about learning to drive ( _Muggle cars didn’t actually fly?_ ). She was hooked.

Muggle Studies classes couldn’t touch the education she got sitting in a café with an Extendable Ear, listening to all of the things that interested Muggle teenagers: relationships, something called A-levels ( _apparently like NEWTs_ ), something called “you knee” ( _perhaps a school beyond their equivalent of Hogwarts?_ ), football ( _Dean used to talk about that_ ), cricket ( _Muggle insects must be very different from magical ones_ ), and how their parents wouldn’t listen to them ( _which made them sound no different than magical parents_ ). But Ginny liked it most when the girls talked about fashion and hairstyles and makeup, something she could understand, but had never had the means to pursue… until now. And, after seeing that picture of herself wearing baggy jeans and Har—that old Snitch jumper for the thousandth time in some magazine, she exchanged her galleons for pounds and started shopping.  

In no time at all, Ginny had added the phrase “retail therapy” to her vocabulary and her wardrobe held a shameful amount of still-tagged clothing to demonstrate the concept. She furnished her flat with luxurious linens and soft cushions and funky art and quirky dishes. She got on a first-name basis with the clerks at Selfridges and Liberty and Harrod’s and Harvey Nick’s. She grew as familiar with the West End and Knightsbridge/Kensington as she was with Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. And even if she had absolutely nowhere in the wizarding world to wear an Oscar de la Renta sheer beaded mini dress with fishnet tights and knee-high buckled boots that had cost three-months’ salary, she didn’t much care. It was fun and pretty and it had helped to push the demons away two weeks before Christmas when the memories had become too hard to bear.

Ginny sucked in a great gulp of cool spring air as she bumped and jostled between other shoppers beneath Oxford Street’s towering sculpted facades with their glistening windows and tempting treasures. She’d spent enough time with Healer Andrews to know that this wasn’t the best way to face her shadows, but she didn’t care. She enjoyed shopping and some times of the year were just too hard not to look for an escape.

Even this long after… everything, the shadows descended with a vengeance on significant anniversaries. Too many anniversaries spread throughout the year. She’d worked through her issues—well, most of them—in her year of sessions with Healer Andrews, and most of the time she was fine. But, somewhere along the way, she’d realized why the demons were most fierce in November and December. Nearly all of the things she’d been through at other times of the year—the Death Eater reign at Hogwarts, fear for Ron and Hermione and Harry, hiding at Auntie Muriel’s, the final battle, Fred’s death, her abduction—had all been brought about by outside forces, things beyond her control. But the demons that haunted her at the end of the year had been created by her own hand. She had no one to blame for them but herself.

Oh, she’d worked through some of it with Healer Andrews—her depression, her “flying accident,” her fear of the press—but she’d never been able to bring herself to talk about her paralyzing fear for Harry when he’d been captured and why she’d sent him away. Yes, she’d had to talk about Harry to some degree because he had been so intertwined with her life for so many years, but when it came down to the real reasons why she’d fallen into such a sorry state that autumn, she’d found ways to leave him out of it. She’d never talked with anyone but Hermione about what had happened; to discuss it with a stranger when she’d refused to talk to _Harry_ had seemed like too much of a betrayal. Besides, what would be the point of digging out all of those memories and emotions, anyway? He was gone and, from the looks of it, had no plans to ever return. Hermione only heard from him a couple of times a year anymore, and, as far as Ginny knew, he was still living with that Russian tart in Bulgaria (although, the press hadn’t reported anything new on them in more than a year).

Ginny stopped in the middle of the pavement and shook her head to clear it. How had she walked all the way to Selfridge’s without remembering the trip? And why had she allowed her thoughts to stray into such dangerous territory? The whole point of coming into Muggle London was to put such things away. Shoving her memories back into their proper place, she pushed into the shop and plunged into her favorite fantasy world.

Later, Ginny paused at the foot of the second floor escalator and scowled at the two pitifully small bags in her hand. After three hours, she had made only two purchases: a muted peach silk dress shirt for Liam that would go perfectly with his grey formal robes from last year (he’d refused to “waste the money” on new ones) and a dangly pair of gold earrings with silver dragonflies sitting on a jumble of jewel-tone dichroic glass*, garnet, and turquoise—both would go well with her robes for the awards banquet. But usually by this point she had so many bags that she was forced to find a deserted corner where she could shrink them all into one. The escapist magic just didn’t seem to be working today.

With a heavy sigh, she stepped onto the moving stairs, determined to give it another go before giving up. The display that came into view as she reached the third floor made her glad she’d persisted. The sweet little “Armani Kids” ensemble was an exact miniature of the adult-sized version that Ginny had bought for herself just a week ago: a lilac and white stripe cashmere v-neck jumper that hung to hip-length over a skirt of solid lilac diaphanous layers cut to look like some exotic flower.

The outfit was screaming Victoire’s name. Her second birthday was only three weeks away and the occasion called for something wonderful to wear. Ginny didn’t even look at the price before asking the clerk to wrap it up. As she dashed off to find a secluded corner in the car park that she could use to Apparate back to the alley behind her flat, she drew a satisfied breath. _This_ was the feeling she’d been looking for.

***

“Fleur? Are you there?”

Ginny kept her breathing shallow as she looked through the fire into the sitting room at Shell Cottage. She didn’t mind going through the Floo so much, but talking into it always left her throat scratchy and her eyes watering. The feeling only got worse when the door from the kitchen burst open and the mouthful of ash she sucked in with her gasp of surprise made her cough.

“All right there, Gin?” Bill knelt in front of her, face full of concern.

Ginny nodded as another spasm took her. “What are— _cough_ —you doing— _cough, cough_ —home?”

For just a split second, Bill’s eyes held some indefinable emotion before he smoothed his features again. “I, erm... I... Fleur wasn’t feeling well this morning, so I took the day off.”

“Oh, is she okay?”

“Yeah. Just… something upset her stomach.” A fleeting smile crossed Bill’s lips before he focused back on the fireplace. “Did you need her? I can—”

“I was hoping I could come through,” Ginny said quickly to stop him from rising. “I’ve bought something for Victoire.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Ginny, you’ve got to stop this. You’re spoiling her rotten!”

Ginny sniffed indignantly and immediately regretted it when her nose filled with hot ash. “She’s my only niece. Why shouldn’t I spoil her? So, can I come through, or not?”

Bill stiffened slightly, then turned and called through the kitchen door. “Fleur, Ginny wants to come through. Is this a good time?”

A couple of moments later, Fleur sent a flustered look around the door. “Yes, it is all right, now.” She quickly disappeared again.

By the time Ginny stumbled from the grate, she could hear Victoire wailing at the top of her lungs in the next room.

Ginny’s brows shot up. “What’s wrong with her?”

Bill heaved a sigh and ran a weary hand over his face. “Her, erm… favorite playmate had to leave.”

As the hysterical screaming increased to Caterwauling Charm intensity, Ginny rushed into the kitchen, crooning, “Victoire! Baby! What’s wrong? Come and let Auntie Ginny make it all better.”

The shrieks only ratcheted up another notch. “Ree! Ree! _Veux_ Ree!” With her face unrecognizably contorted, red-blotched and dripping, Victoire strained over her mother’s shoulder, stretching softly dimpled hands toward the back door.

Ginny tried dangling the brightly colored shop bag and promising a present and sweets, but the little girl remained inconsolable. After a moment, Bill swooped in and pried her from Fleur’s arms. “I think we’re past naptime, aren’t we, Princess?”

Victoire clung to him, pressing her face into his neck as her tears subsided to a mournful, muffled chant punctuated by shuddering hiccoughs. “ _Veux_ Ree. _Veux_ Ree. _Veux_ Ree.”

Fleur watched them disappear up the stairs with a wistful sigh. “ _Pauvre petite princesse._ She responds so much better to men, and especially to her papa. I think she has more than a touch of the Veela blood in her.” Turning to face Ginny, a small frown formed between Fleur’s brows. She flicked her wand to move a half-empty mug from the table to the sink, then gestured at a chair. “Please, sit. I am preparing lunch. Would you like a sandwich?”

Ginny’s stomach grumbled softly as she sank into her seat. “Yes, please. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that upset. That must be a very special playmate.”

Fleur cast a strange look over her shoulder before turning back to piling meat and cheese onto slices of bread. “Yes… very special.” She waved her wand to deliver three plates of sandwiches and crisps to the table, then opened the cupboard to retrieve a mug and pour a cup of tea to set before Ginny. “You have been shopping again, no?”

With an excited grin, Ginny pulled the gift for Victoire out of the bag and displayed it on the table. “Yes, I saw this and thought it would be perfect for Victoire to wear at her birthday party. I have one just like it. Isn’t it adorable?”

Fleur chewed her lip for a moment as she fingered the delicate fabrics, then gave Ginny a smile that looked a bit pained. “It is beautiful, yes, but—”

“But you’ll have to take it back,” Bill finished for her as he flopped into his chair with a heavy sigh of relief and gave Fleur a soft smile. “All knackered out. She should sleep for a couple of hours.”

“Take it back?” Ginny blurted, ignoring the off-topic discussion. “Why?”

Bill and Fleur exchanged a glance as he lifted the price tag dangling over the edge of the table. “Shit, Ginny!” He threw it down in disgust. “ _That’s_ why! Do you realize that much money could buy robes and books for _four_ Hogwarts students?” Leave it to Bill to calculate exchange rates in his head. “She’ll outgrow this in just a couple of months. How are we supposed to teach her what’s really valuable in life if you keep spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things for her?”

Fleur waved her wand toward the stairway in the movement for a Silencing Shield, then folded her hands in her lap as if to retreat from the line of fire.

“Well, excuse me!” Ginny snatched the clothing from the table and shoved it back into the bag. “I didn’t realize that _price_ should be the main consideration in choosing a _gift_.”

“That’s not the point!” Bill’s voice rose a notch. Fleur put a hand on his arm and he drew a breath to pull his anger back under control. “Ginny, I—we love you. And we want you to be part of Victoire’s life, but that,” he gestured at the bag, “will only teach her to value the wrong things and it has to stop.”

Ginny had already lost her bid for control and didn’t much care. “What, so I can’t give her gifts anymore? Should I take back her birthday present and scratch her off of my Christmas list, as well?”

Bill snarled—perhaps last night’s full moon had more effect on him than anyone realized. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Gifts are one thing. It’s the outlandish spending that’s the problem.”

Ginny shoved back from the table, shouldering her handbag and grabbing the shop bag as she stood. “I didn’t realize I had to ask your permission to spend my own money.”

“That would be a great argument if it _was_ your own money!” Bill shook off Fleur’s move to soothe him.

Ginny’s anger roared to full flame. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His chair crashing to the floor, Bill leaned over the table. “That you don’t _have_ that kind of money to spend! George has been covering for you for more than a year!”

Ginny went cold. “What do you mean?” Her words came out in a harsh whisper.

“Bill, _arrête. S'il te plaît_.”

Fleur’s quiet words halted his next outburst. He straightened and turned his back on them, running a shaky hand over the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.” He turned back to Ginny with pleading eyes. “Please… please sit down. Let me explain.”

Ginny sat, mostly because she was afraid her knees would give out if she didn’t. She couldn’t find her voice to ask the questions that were bouncing in her head, so she stared at the table and waited.

“Merlin, he’s going to kill me,” Bill muttered to himself, or maybe to Fleur—Ginny didn’t look to see—as he dropped back into his own chair. “Ginny, I...” He murmured a profanity and dropped his face into his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to think of a way to do this without it turning into… Guess I’ve made a bloody mess of it already so I’ll just spit it out.”

His gaze weighed on her, as if he were waiting for her approval, but Ginny lifted her chin and looked away. Whatever he was on about, she saw no reason to make it easy for him.

He huffed out a resigned breath. “Right. About a year ago, maybe a bit longer, one of the Goblins who handles automatic transactions came to my office with what he called ‘a matter of personal concern.’ He said he was supposed to make the transfer from your account for George’s monthly agent’s fee, but that you didn’t have enough to cover the full amount.” Bill paused at Ginny’s gasp of surprise; she put a trembling hand over her mouth as he continued. “Gobnik asked if I wanted to handle it with you before the bank assessed a penalty. You were with the team in France at the time, so I Flooed George to see if it was okay with him to hold the transfer until your next deposit from the Harpies. He said yes and I thought that was the end of it. But a couple of months later, I saw Gobnik in the hall and thanked him again for his help. I asked him to let me know if any other problems came up. He told me that you shouldn’t have any more problems because George had discontinued the transfer from _your_ account and set up another from _his_ account to cover any future shortfalls in yours.”

Ginny let her bags fall to the floor and dropped her head into her hands. How dare George? He was still treating her like a bloody baby.

Bill grunted. “So I was right. You didn’t know. George said he would talk to you, but that was months ago. I thought sure he’d got it all sorted when you moved into the flat.”

Ginny jerked her head up. “The flat. Why, that bloody, buggering…” Words deserted her as her anger reignited.

Bill’s face showed his confusion. “What about the flat?”

“He won’t let me pay rent... gave me some cock and bull story about it being enough for me watch out for things when the shop is closed. And I went for it, like a Niffler after gold.” She gave a harsh bark of laughter at the ironic imagery, then, in a flash of fury, sent her teacup shattering against the wall. “How could I have been so _stupid_?”

Truth be told, Ginny was far angrier with herself than she was with George—and she could happily Bat-Bogey _him_ from both ends for a week. She turned her venom on Bill. “Who else knows? Ron and Hermione? Angelina? Oh, Merlin, please don’t tell me Percy and Charlie know. Or Mum and Dad.” Her voice trailed off in a wail. The final straw would be to find out that this was a family conspiracy.

“No one else knows.” Bill moved around the table to wrap his arms around her; Ginny resisted the desire to bury her face in his neck like Victoire had done. “Well, Angelina might know,” he conceded, “but, strictly speaking, they’re still in the honeymoon phase, so she might not have worked it out yet. I think if she had, she would’ve put a stop to it, or at least made him tell you.”

Ginny groaned and dropped her head to Bill’s chest, cringing at the thought of her newest sister-in-law knowing what an idiot she’d been.

George and Angelina’s wedding had surprised them all. Ginny hadn’t thought much about the larger than normal crowd at the family New Year’s party until Angelina had thrust a bouquet of rainbow sparklers into her hands and pulled her into line with Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet in front of the tufty-haired Ministry wizard who’d presided at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. By the time everyone had realized that the ceremony was more than an elaborate prank, George had been kissing the bride beneath fireworks spelling out “George and Angelina Weasley” in garish neon colors. Mum had been livid over the lack of formality and tradition (or, more likely, her exclusion from the planning and preparations) until George had reminded her that they could’ve just eloped. And besides, they’d said, Fred would’ve been thrilled with the spontaneity and casual attire. Afterward, they’d moved into Angelina’s larger flat and helped Ginny move from the Burrow into the one over the shop.

And now she was wondering if she should move back to the Burrow. If she couldn’t stand on her own two feet, she had no business living on her own.

“I know he meant well, Gin.”

Bill’s gentle voice brought Ginny back to the present. She pulled away and gave him a bitter smile. “But I should’ve known. And here, I’d thought I had worked through all of that crap. Really got my act together.”

“You _do_ have your act together. You just—”

Ginny stood abruptly and walked to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. “I just got too caught up in being Ginny Weasley, star Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.” She gave a derisive snort. “What a load of shite.”

Bill stepped up behind her and draped his arms around her. “You’re very good at being Ginny Weasley, star Chaser and my favorite little sister... George’s, too, I’d wager.”

“But that’s just it. You lot try to take care of me too much and for the past few years, I’ve let you. I need to take care of myself. George had no right to do that without telling me.” She pushed herself out of Bill’s arms with a frustrated growl. “How did I get to this point again? I was going to _do_ something with my life, something that _matters_.”

“But you _are_ doing something that matters,” Bill insisted. “Look at all of the young girls—boys, too—who look up to you. That matters, doesn’t it? And look at how you’ve overcome your fears. Just the way you’ve learned to handle the press is an inspiration.”

Ginny cut a glance at Fleur. “I didn’t do that on my own, either. And it’s easier when they’re paying attention to me for something that _I’ve_ done, not just because I’m someone’s daughter or sister or…” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “…or girlfriend.” She straightened her shoulders and shook off the demons reaching out for her. “I have to go. If George weren’t in Dublin this week, I’d be hunting him down, but I can at least go to Gringott’s and sort out this mess.”

“I will come with you. I have some business at Gringott’s, too.” Fleur stood and gave Bill a meaningful look, then turned to Ginny. “You will come and help me with another errand when we are finished?”

“Oh! Well, of course. If you need me…”

Fleur nodded firmly. “I do.”

Bill swept his wife into a warm hug. “ _Mon trésor_ , you’re brilliant! Have I told you that today?”

Fleur turned her cheek up for a kiss. “No, but I will forgive you, _mon loup_ , because you are such a wise man to have married a woman who is so beautiful _and_ intelligent.”

Ginny felt a twinge of envy at the obvious love in their banter and in their eyes.

“You shouldn’t Apparate, _chéri,_ ” Bill said, his voice touched with concern. “You don’t want to… erm, upset your stomach again.”

Fleur smiled and stroked his cheek. “Yes, you are right. We can take the Floo to Ginny’s flat and then walk. The exercise will be good for me, no?”

Ginny wondered how spinning through the Floo would be less upsetting than Apparition, but she didn’t get a chance to ask as Fleur dashed upstairs to get her cloak and Bill followed her to check on Victoire.

***

As she ranted about George and the obscene amount of money the Goblins told her had been funneled into her account over the past year, Ginny hardly noticed the walk from Gringott’s to the Leaky Cauldron, but she fell silent with curiosity when they stepped through the door into Muggle London. Refusing to say where they were going, Fleur steered the conversation to the awards banquet and Ginny’s robes and the latest rubbish the press had printed about Ginny being engaged to a wizard nobleman from Spain whom she’d never even met.

“And, so, how is Liam accepting this news of your engagement?” Fleur teased.

“Hmph! He’s ignoring it just like he does all of the other outrageous things they print. I think he’s a bit too sure of me.”

“It is not bad for a man to be certain of you, if he is the one for you.” Fleur’s expression became a smooth mask and her tone shifted to indifference. “You have been together for nearly a year. Do you think he is the one?”

“I don’t know… I just...” Ginny took an intense interest in the passing cracks in the pavement. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk with Fleur about this... she hadn’t even confided much about her feelings to Hermione and she usually told Hermione everything. But, then, maybe it would help to sort out her thoughts if she spoke them aloud. She heaved a heavy sigh. “Liam is wonderful. He’s kind and funny and thoughtful and easy to talk to and really, really good looking.” Fleur smiled as Ginny pretended an exaggerated swoon. “He’s not at all impressed with my fame, but he doesn’t seem to mind much that other people are. He hardly ever gets upset or angry with me, even when I try to push him into a blazing row. Not that he lets me get away with everything, mind, but he’s just so laid back that I can rant for an hour and then he sums it all up in about three sentences and helps me see where I went wrong. He’s… I don’t know… comfortable and warm and…” Ginny bit her tongue on the last word— _safe_. “Why wouldn’t I want to keep him around forever?”

Fleur studied her for a moment. “Indeed. Why would you not?” Her tone was thoughtful, speculative.

Ginny flushed, aware of how unconvincing her words had sounded, but she was saved from further response when Fleur drew to a stop before a tall hedgerow.

“Ah, we have arrived.”

Ginny noted the quiet residential neighborhood and realized she had paid no attention to where they’d been walking. She scrambled to follow when Fleur disappeared through the hedgerow (much like the barrier to Platform 9¾). The sight on the other side of the shrubbery left Ginny’s jaw dangling: a lush green play yard, filled with more than two dozen children of all ages, guarded like chicks under a mother hen by the branches of a huge oak tree. The sound of their laughter was infectious, tugging a smile to Ginny’s lips as she watched them run and play with bright, colorful toys that looked both Muggle and magical. Ginny wondered fleetingly if all of the children belonged to one family, or if this was some sort of play center for children while their parents were working.

Most of the children were too young to be first-years and paid Ginny and Fleur no mind, but two girls who looked to be at least third-years were staring with avid interest. Both had woven their hair into messy French plaits and wore faded, unadorned jumpers. They sat in the grass, minding two children about Teddy’s age and another still in nappies.

“Mrs. Weasley! What a surprise. Welcome! And who is this you’ve brought with you today?”

Ginny reluctantly pulled her eyes from the two young girls to greet the woman who was making her way down the steps of the house at the end of the lawn.

Fleur smiled at the woman and drew Ginny forward. “This is my sister-in-law, Ginny. I thought she might enjoy a visit with the children while we take care of some business. Ginny, this is Madam Mason, the matron of this home for war orphans.”

 _War orphans?_ Something tickled the back of Ginny’s memory, but she couldn’t quite pull it forward.

“Oh, my! Ginny Weasley! What an honor!” Madam Mason’s warm smile broadened as she pumped Ginny’s hand vigorously. “The children will be so excited. They are such fans. And they have so few visitors these days, especially since Mr. Potter hasn’t been able to come in such a long time. This will be a wonderful treat for them.”

With a jerk, Ginny met the calm challenge in Fleur’s eyes as Madam Mason prattled on. This was _Harry’s_ orphanage. The one he’d been so excited about only two days before he’d gone missing and changed their lives.

Ginny somehow managed to smile and murmur the appropriate words as her brain spun into a whirlwind of memories and emotions that she’d thought had been tucked away forever. Through her shock, she was only vaguely aware of Fleur and Madam Mason moving toward the house. Ginny remained near the hedgerow and surveyed the play yard with fresh eyes.

The lawn wasn’t quite as lush as she’d first thought and the house needed painting and repairing. The toys weren’t quite as new as they’d first looked, even if they were abundant and in working order. The children’s clothing was clean and mended, but still obviously second-hand, ill-sized, and mismatched. Resources here were sparse. Ginny knew what it was like to grow up without the nicer things in life, but the thought of having to do it without family broke her heart. And she knew without a doubt that that was what had touched Harry’s heart. He had wanted to help these children.

 _Wait!_ That’s why they were here, now.

Ginny’s heart clenched as she turned and watched Fleur go through the door of the house with Madam Mason. Hermione had said once that Harry had asked Fleur to handle his financial matters while he was gone. He was still helping these children… through Fleur.

The whirlwind in her head spun faster, leaving her dizzy and gasping for air. She’d put all of that away more than a year ago and the sudden blast of suppressed longing sucked the shadows from the recesses of her mind and shook the walls that held those particular demons at bay. Her limbs began to tremble. Cold sweat trickled down her spine. She couldn’t allow those feelings to escape—the guilt, the sorrow, the aching need—or she’d plunge back into that terrifying black hole and never dig her way out again. She had to get away…

“You’re Ginny Weasley, aren’t you?”

Ginny tore away from her inner storm to find a lanky boy with curly brown hair and dark grey eyes studying her curiously. She drew a couple of steadying breaths and nodded. “Who… who are you?”

“My name’s Henry and I’m seven.”

Ginny gave him a shaky smile and forced herself to appear calm, calling on the same techniques she’d learned to conquer her fear with the press. “I’m pleased to meet you, Henry.” She offered her hand; he shook it with the solemn importance of someone much older.

“Are you really the bestest flier in the whole world?”

The seriousness of the question caught Ginny by surprise and she laughed, releasing some of the tension in her gut. “I don’t think so. I know loads of people who can fly better than me.”

“That’s not what my sister Julia says. She says you’re the bestest flier and the bestest Quidditch player in the whole world.”

“ _Henry!_ ” With a vicious scowl on her flushed face, one of the older girls was moving quickly toward them, pulling a tiny girl along in her wake. The soft brown curls escaping her plait matched Henry’s perfectly, even if her eyes were bluer than his. “Henry, leave her alone! Miss Weasley doesn’t want to be bothered with you.”

Henry turned a mutinous frown on the girl. “I’m not bothering her. I’m just talking to her. And she says lots of people can fly better than her. I told you a _girl_ couldn’t be the bestest flier in the whole world.”

Ginny didn’t think it was possible for the girl to turn a deeper shade of red, but somehow she managed. “ _Henry!_ ” The name came out as something of a cross between a wail and a growl.

“He’s not bothering me,” Ginny said, grateful for the distraction from her own turmoil and hoping to ward off the impending argument. She gave the girl a bright smile. “You must be Julia.” Julia went suddenly pale and mute, her eyes wide with something akin to fear. Knowing from personal experience what Julia was probably feeling in the presence of a long-admired celebrity, Ginny quickly smiled at the little girl holding Julia’s hand. “And who is this you have with you?”

The little girl at Julia’s side took her thumb from her mouth and held up three fingers. “I’m Sally. I’m fwee.”

Ginny crouched to bring herself to eye-level with the child. “Well, hello, Sally. I’m Ginny. Can you introduce me to your friends?”

With a proud, toothy grin, Sally pointed in turn at the other girl Julia’s age, the toddler she had in tow and the baby on her hip. “Dat’s Jenny and Susie and Jimmy.”

The three had joined the rapidly growing group of children who had gathered to inspect the stranger in their world. Few of them recognized Ginny, but they seemed interested and pleased as she greeted each one of them. When she’d finished, only a handful of the oldest ones followed when Henry pulled her over to sit on a bench beneath the oak tree. Ginny kept an eye on Julia, who stayed to the back of the group, trying to remain inconspicuous but hanging on Ginny’s every word.

“So, how many of you have ever played Quidditch?” Ginny asked when they were all settled on the ground before her. Her eyes went wide when no hands went up. “None of you? Have you ever watched a match?”

Henry shrugged. “We listen to it on the wireless with Madam Mason and Madam Smythe. And we get to watch the pictures in the newspaper.”

“Well, that’s no way to learn about Quidditch,” Ginny said gently. “The best way is to watch a real game. There’s nothing like it in the world.” She looked at Julia and Jenny. “You’ve watched the matches at Hogwarts, haven’t you? In fact, you must have been first-years the last year I was there.”

Julia’s face turned red again, but she held Ginny’s gaze and her voice was steady. “We don’t go to Hogwarts.”

“You don’t? But why not?” Ginny realized her mistake when Julia’s eyes turned icy and her chin lifted in defiance.

“It’s not what you think. We could go, if we wanted to, but we’re needed here. I promised my mum I’d take care of Henry and Sally and I can’t very well do that from Scotland, now can I? And Madam Mason and Madam Smythe can’t take care of all of the other children by themselves, can they? We’re needed here. Going to school doesn’t _matter_. Staying here to help is what matters.”

For all her bravado, Julia’s voice wavered slightly at the end and Ginny _knew_. After all, the pride of the poor had been Ginny’s own sustenance for years. Julia had accepted her lot in life because it was all she could do—settling in her mind that she was doing something that mattered.

Something that mattered…

_Do you realize that much money could buy robes and books for four Hogwarts students?_

Bill’s words took on new meaning. Fleur had brought Ginny here because she’d said she wanted to do something that mattered. And suddenly, _this_ —these children—mattered. They mattered a lot. And not just because this was Harry’s orphanage.

“Well!” Ginny forced her voice into a happier tone and turned her gaze on the group at large. “We’ll just have to see what we can do about your sadly lacking knowledge of Quidditch. Henry, can you find me some balls? I need three that are big and one that is tiny—there! That yellow ball over there will do for the Snitch. We’ll have to improvise, but I think we can work out a good way to do this.”

The children scrambled to find the toys that she could Transfigure into Quidditch balls and goals. Ginny watched them with a warm glow in her chest and a flurry of ideas in her head. Finally! She’d found something that mattered and she knew exactly what she needed to do.

~~~~~~ 

_*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dichroic_glass_


	34. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny decides she needs to move forward with her life.

Ginny scanned the glittering crowd in search of her next victim.

“Prospect” might be a better word, but either would work. Whoever she chose would give her what she wanted. She simply refused to give up until she had the money the children’s home needed to hire two additional full-time workers. No matter how stubborn Julia remained, Ginny intended to see that she and Jenny and the three other school-age children were on board the Hogwarts Express come September first.

In the six weeks that had passed since Ginny had first stumbled through that hedgerow, much had changed, both at the home and inside of Ginny. She had thrown herself wholeheartedly into making life better for the children and, in turn, had given herself a sense of purpose she hadn’t felt since she’d led the student rebellion three years earlier.

During the walk back to Ginny’s flat, Fleur had told her that the Ministry was providing minimal support based on the home’s original twelve children; it never took into account the additional children who had found their way to Madam Mason. And the home had only one other source of income. ( _I try to tell him that he cannot do it alone, but he will not listen_ —no need to ask who “he” was.) Fleur had tried to do what she could to help at the home over the past two years, but with Victoire and now another little Weasley on the way (they’d announced it at the last family dinner; Ginny couldn’t believe she’d missed the clues), she didn’t have the time or energy to do more than serve as liaison for Harry. And, in spite of the thirty-five percent increase George had just negotiated for her, Ginny’s own financial resources were down to nearly nothing. She’d got Hermione to help make an appeal to the Ministry for greater support, but when that failed, they’d come up with the idea of soliciting donations.

Ginny’s first prospect—no, “victim” was more appropriate in this case—had been George. Once she’d released him from the Bat Bogey Hex and revealed his deceit to Angelina, he’d been more than willing to pay the cost of hiring a tutor for the children who would be going to school in the autumn. Julia and Jenny would be fourth-years; they had a lot of catching up to do.

Quidditch players had been next on Ginny’s list of vic—erm, prospects. And the awards banquet was the perfect place to catch them all at once. Her eyes roved the crowd milling between the bars that bookended the plush reception area outside of the Ministry ballroom. The banquet would start shortly. She probably had time to get one more pledge.

“What about Flint?”

Ginny’s gaze followed the direction of Liam’s nod; she gave an exaggerated shiver at the sight of the burly Falmouth Falcons Chaser. “Ugly bugger, isn’t he?” Even Marcus Flint’s formal robes couldn’t make him look less like a troll.

“Yeah, but I heard he renewed his contract today for twenty-five percent more. And he’s been celebrating like a drunken leprechaun since he got here, so this would probably be a good time to make your pitch. Want me to come with you?”

Ginny squeezed Liam’s hand and smiled at the teasing sparkle in his blue-grey eyes. “I _can_ take care of myself, you know.”

“I know. It’s him I’m worried about.”

She bumped him with her hip. “Prat! I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll probably do better without you.” Batting her eyelashes, she cast him a coy smile.

Liam snorted. “Poor sod doesn’t stand a chance.”

Ginny tip-toed to place a kiss on his cheek. “You go talk to Wood. You know him better than I do and he should be good for at least a thousand.”

Liam wrapped gentle fingers around her chin and tipped her face up for a proper kiss. When a camera flashed in their direction, he reluctantly released her with a smile to go in search of Oliver Wood. Ginny remained still, admiring Liam’s broad shoulders and graceful stride until he disappeared into the crowd. He’d been doing that more, lately—kissing her in public. She didn’t mind, really. He was such a sweetheart.

When Ginny had got to practice early the day after going to the children’s home, he had listened patiently, an indulgent smile playing about his lips, as she’d told him all about it. By the time practice was over, he had already rounded up a set of retired Quidditch balls and a couple of brooms, placed safety charms on them, and got the team business manager to give up ten tickets to the final game of the season. He’d gone with her to deliver everything and spent an hour supervising the older children on the brooms while Ginny had talked with Madam Mason. She really needed to find a way to thank him properly for being so supportive.

Ginny shook the thought away before her stomach could start to churn. She didn’t have time to get distracted right now.

Throwing back her shoulders, she turned toward Flint and worked her way through the crowd. The looks that followed her held a variety of emotions—lust, envy, admiration, judgment, and others that she didn’t take time to examine. As evidence of how far she’d come since school, she tilted her chin defiantly and added a confident sashay to her stride, all the better to show off her robes that were probably causing much of the stir.

More Muggle evening gown than wizarding robes, the silky bronze satin swished around her as she walked, leaving no doubt about the shapeliness of the legs beneath. A circle of jewel-colored stones held together the neckline and the cut-away, elbow-length raglan sleeves that boldly displayed her bare, toned shoulders. The glimpses of skin through the center-split bodice and back would draw at least a Howler from her mother at breakfast, if not proclamations of scandal from the wizarding press. But she didn’t care. She looked good tonight and was proud of it.

By the time she joined Liam at the Harpies’s table for the start of the banquet, Ginny was positively giddy with excitement. Yes, she knew the photographers had snapped her shamelessly flirting with Flint and his mates and would no doubt portray her as wanton in tomorrow’s papers, but right this minute all was right with the world. She had secured a 2,000-galleon pledge from Flint and 500 more apiece from two of his teammates. When Liam showed her Wood’s signed pledge for 1,500 galleons, she threw herself into his arms with a squeal. He gave a great whoop of laughter and spun her around with a passionate kiss that didn’t stop until the catcalls and whistles became quite loud.

With flushed cheeks and an uncontrollable smile, Ginny dropped into her chair and gulped down half a flute of elf-made wine in one swallow. She met Liam’s eyes over the rim of her glass and her blush spread to the rest of her body. The desire he usually kept carefully banked flared openly in his gaze, setting a flock of pixies loose beneath her ribs. She answered his unspoken question with an unspoken answer and felt a thrill as the surprise lit his face. With a squeeze of her hand and another relatively chaste kiss, he turned to respond to the raunchy teasing of the other Harpies and their spouses and dates.

Ginny watched Liam through lowered lids as she took another sip of her wine, admiring the dancing pewter-blue eyes and the hint of a dimple next to the expressive mouth that always seemed ready to smile. She was still surprised by her attraction to him. The summer and autumn after Hogwarts, she had been so completely focused on becoming a professional Quidditch player and sorting out her life with the help of Healer Andrews that she hadn’t been able to do more than get from one day to the next. Starting a new relationship had been the last thing on her mind.

And then that picture of her and Liam had come out in the _Prophet_. The way it was cropped had made the scene appear much more intimate than reality—the rest of the team had been seated about the large table and Liam’s other arm had been around Kelby. Ginny had been horribly embarrassed, but he’d brushed it off without much fuss and that had been that… until it had showed up again and again in other newspapers and magazines, followed by similar photos of Ginny with other Quidditch players, politicians, and celebrities from Britain and other countries, some of whom she’d never even met. The team had treated the whole thing as a running joke, placing wagers on who would be Ginny’s next paramour and whether or not Liam would eventually win out. He had borne the jibes good-naturedly, but after a while, the joke had taken a turn in Ginny’s mind and she had begun to see him in a new light.

His easy-going manner and ready smile that had seemed so big-brother-like became much more attractive. His eyes seemed bluer and his laugh more contagious. She began to notice the way his bum tapered nicely into powerful thighs and how the muscles rippled in his shoulders as he went about his work.

More than five months passed after that first picture had run before Ginny had been able to work up her courage (with some prodding from Kelby) to ask him out for a pint after practice one evening. He’d been surprised, but had come along and, in spite of Ginny’s nerves, the “date” had been quite pleasant. From there, they’d fallen into a companionable routine that took six months to lead to their first kiss... and she’d had to make the first move again. Liam had told her he was getting over a break-up with a long-time girlfriend and hadn’t wanted to rush into anything new, but, even more, he’d been reluctant to believe that Ginny could be romantically interested in him because of the eight years’ difference in their ages (he still made occasional remarks about his being a cradle snatcher or her dating a perverted old codger). By the time she’d convinced him that age didn’t matter, she suspected that warnings from several, if not all, of her brothers, and probably Mum, as well—in addition to his own caution—had kept the relationship at its flobberworm pace. But she hadn’t complained; taking things slowly had felt… safe.

As the elves cleared the empty dishes from the banquet tables and Ludo Bagman began his stream of bad jokes to open the awards ceremony, Liam shifted his chair closer to Ginny’s and put his arm around her shoulders, settling in for the long parade of presentations and acceptance speeches. She snuggled close to his side, her heart battering madly against her ribs in anticipation of the big awards at the end. Yes, that was it, she was nervous about the awards—not about the private celebration she was planning for later.

They’d tentatively crossed the line into intimacy only a couple of months ago, but hadn’t made much progress since. The first time things had taken that turn, Ginny had been so startled to realize what they were doing that she’d jerked away. Liam had soothed her embarrassed apologies, attributing her reluctance to leftover trauma from her abduction (they’d discussed the basics and she was sure her brothers had given him far too much detail). Ginny had let the assumption stand, even though she was certain that something else entirely had made her react so strongly: guilt.

In her sessions with Healer Andrews, she’d dealt with survivor’s guilt from the war and guilt over what she’d put her family through with her depression. But she’d hidden away her guilt over what she’d done to Harry, and now it was oozing from the hidden recesses of her mind to accuse her. How could she ever believe she was worthy of having something this good, some _one_ this good, after she’d hurt Harry so badly? The guilt quickly took on a personality of its own, whispering in the back of her mind, confirming all of the horrible things she believed about herself.

She knew should probably talk things out with Healer Andrews, ask for help in confronting the feelings and working through them, but she couldn’t bring herself to dredge up all of that emotion. She was so bloody tired of theorizing and analyzing and strategizing. She just wanted to be able to _live_ her life without having to consider the motive behind every thought or word or deed. Besides, what was the point? Harry was gone. He wasn’t coming back. And, even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say. She’d never be able to explain things to him, to make things right. Her only recourse was to just accept that she’d made a mistake and move on.

And so, she had locked the guilt away and encouraged things with Liam to move along. But they hadn’t. She’d frozen again. Even with the voice in her head firmly gagged, she’d found herself listening for it, expecting it to break free and accuse her. Sensing her distress, Liam had gently backed away. Frustrated and miserable, Ginny had let him.

But after her near-heart-to-heart talk with Fleur, Ginny had done some hard thinking. She didn’t want to make the same mistakes that she’d made in the past. Liam had been so kind, so caring, so patient. She refused to test his limits any longer. He deserved more from her. Inner demons be damned, the time had come to take this relationship to the next level. She would just have to summon her Gryffindor courage and do it.

The rest of the awards banquet passed in a blur. Ginny won the League’s Most Valuable Player award again and the Harpies took the League Cup. By the time she and Liam stumbled into her darkened flat after the post-banquet celebration at the Glowing Goblet, she was floating on a cloud of euphoria, more drunk on the heady feeling of success than on wine, although she’d consumed more of that than she was used to as well. Anything was possible tonight.

Kicking the door closed behind them, she wrapped her arms about Liam’s neck for a kiss and trembled as one warm hand slipped easily through the slit in the back of her gown to caress her bare back. His other hand rested low on her hip, not quite moving into dangerous territory, but close enough. Ginny moaned softly into his mouth. Merlin, he felt good, all warm and solid and tender. She suddenly knew how to get past the guardian in her head—stop thinking and just feel.

Without breaking the kiss, she began to prod him backwards. They stumbled twice, making slow progress as they explored mouths and bodies, bumping hard into the chair when Ginny loosened the clasp on his cloak and it tangled around his feet. When he veered toward the sofa, she steered him back on the path toward the bedroom.

He stopped and pulled back from her enough to stare with eyes gone nearly black with desire. “Are you sure?”

She answered with a kiss and a gentle push toward the bedroom. No, she wasn’t sure. She was terrified… but determined. Discussing it now would break the mood and possibly her resolve. He seemed to accept her answer and lifted her off her feet to make the journey quicker.

He stood her beside the bed, lips and tongues dancing, hands stroking backs and hips, circling in ever widening patterns, teasing their way toward more sensitive areas. Heart pounding in her ears, Ginny fumbled at his tie and shirt buttons. Liam stilled her hands and gentled his kisses, seemingly determined to take things slowly, probably to give her time to adjust. As he trailed soft kisses down her jaw to the pulse beating wildly below her ear, she willed away the urge to hurry things along and gave herself over to his warmth. Oh, Merlin, she’d missed this feeling, this driving need to give herself completely. Surely, she could break down the barriers tonight.

When he suckled gently at her neck, Ginny groaned and swayed against him. He dropped his hands back to her sides to steady her, nearly encircling her waist with his long fingers. Running a hand back up to his nape and clutching the front of his shirt with the other, Ginny pulled his lips back to hers as he began to stroke her from hip to ribs, inching higher and higher until his thumbs brushed the swell of her breasts. Unconsciously, she stiffened; he froze, lips and hands suspended in place.

Ginny ignored the voice that had freed itself in her head and pressed herself closer to him, grasping a handful of his hair to keep him from breaking the kiss as she swished her tongue across his to encourage him to continue. His mouth responded, but his hands remained still.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his lips

With a groan that sounded like a struggle for control, he renewed the warm trails of his fingers over and under the silky fabric of her gown, making only brief passes with his thumbs along the underside of her breasts. Ginny was sure that he meant well, that he was going slowly to help her relax, but he was driving her mad with anticipation that was raising her anxiety instead of building her desire. The voice in her head was becoming more insistent. She needed to move faster. She needed to _feel_ so she could stop thinking.

With a gentle push, she sat him on the edge of the bed, smiling as she realized that the move brought his face down to her level. She kicked off her shoes and stepped between his legs, kissing him as she pulled off his tie and concentrated on working his buttons to keep from thinking about his hands that were covering her breasts and his thumbs that were stroking the skin between them through the slit in her bodice. When he moved his lips to her throat, she paused in pushing off his shirt and gripped his shoulders to give herself a chance to just _breathe_. His searing palms ghosted across the silky fabric over her taut nipples, sending pulses of desire shooting to every nerve ending in her body and enveloping her brain in a lovely fog that muffled the voice in her head. Yes, she could do this. If she could just keep feeling and not have to think…

And then her brain stopped as he dipped his thumbs beneath the edges of the satin to tease the puckered skin beneath and swipe his tongue into the cleavage that formed when he drew his cupped hands together. When his mouth closed over one cloth-covered peak, her hands went into action of their own accord, unfastening the circle of stones at the back of her neck to get the offending fabric out of the way. He pulled back and gaped as she quickly worked the hooks at the waist and allowed the dress to slide into a puddle at her feet. Before his frozen shock could make her brain come back to life and realize that she was wearing only scanty bronze knickers, she climbed into his lap and pressed her lips and chest to his, reveling in the startled gasp that escaped into her mouth and the unusual sensation of wiry hair pressed into her breasts.

Liam struggled to finish removing his shirt, then braced a hand on her back as he shifted them around to lie side by side on the bed. Pushing up on one elbow, he raked a hungry gaze over her. She wriggled uncomfortably under his scrutiny and ran a trembling hand up his chest and down his muscled bicep, needing to feed the thinning fog as the voice in her brain gained a bit of strength. He took the hint and trailed his fingers slowly from her thigh to her breast, circling the nipple with a calloused thumb before lowering his head to flick the tip of his tongue over it. The jolt of sensation was nearly too much and she arched her back with a strangled gasp, but the fog in her brain thickened immediately. She moaned and wrapped her hand around his neck to keep him from pulling away.

Eyes closed, Ginny sank into the fog. The voice in her head faded into the distance and her whole world became Liam’s hot breath and moist lips and roughened fingers exploring every inch of her heated skin, trailing fire from her heart to the hollow of her throat. The tingling between her hips blossomed into the intense craving she hadn’t felt in years.

His tongue swiped over the juncture of her collarbone, catching on an unseen strand that pulled against the back of Ginny’s neck. Her eyes flew open. The fog dissipated.

“What’s this?” Liam tugged at the invisible chain as Ginny clutched wildly for the pendant that had fallen over her left shoulder.

“Nothing,” she whispered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the panic in her voice. She searched desperately for a reasonable explanation. “Just—just a—a good luck charm. I—erm—keep it Disillusioned. Can’t have jewelry on the pitch, you know. Forgot I was wearing it.”

That part, at least, was true. The invisible necklace had been a part of her for so long that she hardly thought of it any more. Ignoring it was so much easier than arguing with herself about all of the reasons why she should have taken it off years ago. But, now, she cursed herself for not doing so. The voice in her head was screaming again, but she couldn’t push Liam away. That wouldn’t be fair. She had to finish what she’d started.

She ducked her head for a kiss, partly to distract him, but even more, to try to bring back the fog and shut out the angry accusations of guilt and betrayal that were echoing in her head.

Liam didn’t need much encouragement. Ginny focused all of her energy on trying to appear relaxed. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the feelings again, reaching for the tightening in her core. But the fog refused to return and the thrill of desire remained elusive. She stroked Liam’s back, ran her fingers through his hair. He seemed content, caught up in his passion and blessedly unaware of her anxiety for the moment—surprising for him, but then they’d never got this far before. If she could keep him that way, move things along, concentrate on his needs, she might still be able to make this work. She just needed to fake her way through this time, and next time would be easier. Then, she’d know she could do it and she could move on with her life.

Liam shifted down her body, crawling his lips and hands toward unexplored areas. She moved to sit up so she could reach more than his head and shoulders, but he pushed her gently back into the pillows with one hand and peered at her with half-lidded eyes, his chin still on her stomach. “No. Please. Let me…”

Ginny tried not to let her frustration show as she closed her eyes and reached once more for the oblivion of raw need. Instead, her traitorous mind sent flashes of scenes with another man, in another place… visions that stabbed like hot pokers at all of the hidden emotions that had been festering in secrecy for so long.

“So beautiful. So kissable,” Liam murmured, his lips trailing across her hip. She felt him smile against her. “Even your birthmark wants to be kissed.”

His words—Harry’s words—broke through the final barrier. Her body twisted from Liam’s grasp of its own accord. She curled into herself, air rasping painfully into her lungs as she fought off tears. She would not cry. She would not cry.

“Ginny, I’m sor—”

“No! No, it’s not you. Just... just give me a minute. I’ll be okay.”

With two more deep breaths, she pushed her distress away and sat up, drawing her knees to her chest as she turned to face him. A deep crease marked the skin between his brows, his eyes were full of concern.

She forced a smile. “See? All better now.” She reached out a hand.

He took it, but didn’t move any closer. “What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Actually you were doing everything right. It’s me. I... I just need to work through this. Get past it. I’ll be okay.” She pulled on his hand and leaned forward to kiss him.

He dropped her hand and backed away. “I can’t do this. You’re not ready.” His voice was flat, his jaw flexing.

She scrambled closer, panic tinting her tone. “No! Wait! Please, Liam. I’m sorry. I can do this. I just... we just need to push past it. I’ll be fine once we get beyond—”

In a fluid movement he was standing next to the bed. “Would you listen to yourself? Do you hear what you’re asking me to do? You’re not ready and I’ll be damned if I’m going to force myself on you.”

“You wouldn’t be... not if I ask you... please… I need to get past it and I need you to help me. Please… I want this. I want to do this for you. I need to do this for you…”

“For me?” The note of anger was unmistakable. “Why not for you? For us? I don’t want you throwing yourself at me like some sacrificial virgin!”

Ginny turned her head, unable to stop the dry sob that escaped.

Running a hand over his face, he sank back down on the edge of the bed and pushed out a weary sigh. “I’m sorry. I just... I don’t think this is going to work… you and me, I mean.” He stopped and stared at his feet.

Afraid to try to talk past the growing lump in her throat, Ginny pulled a pillow into her lap and clutched it to her chest, as much for comfort as to hide her body. The voice in her head was taunting her mercilessly. She was a complete and utter failure when it came to relationships. This was nothing less than she deserved.

Liam looked at her, his eyes filled with sadness. “It’s not the sex, you know… not that I don’t want…” He stopped and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, impatiently pounding his knee with his other fist. He seemed to gather himself again, then spoke with only a slight quiver in his voice.

“When I found you at the gates that first morning looking like you were facing a Boggart and ready to run for the hills, I just wanted to take care of you.” Ginny cast a watery glare at him, but he just gave her a wry grin. “I know. You can take care of yourself. But I did. And I do. I can’t help it. I could tell right from the start that you were special. You were—are—just so _nice_ … not the arrogant princess everyone had expected, even though you play well enough that you’d have had every right to be. I was so bloody flattered when you first asked me out. Part of it was that I was still hurting over Siobhan and it felt good to be wanted, but mostly it was because I really just _liked_ being around you. You’re beautiful and smart and funny and I just couldn’t resist. And I honestly thought I could make a go of it.”

He looked back down at his hands. “But then you took me to meet your family and I remembered the real first time I ever saw you… at Kings Cross at the start of my second year. I saw this big group of red-headed people on the platform... all those rowdy boys and one tiny little girl. You had to have been about four. I was twelve. And by the time you started school, I’d been out for a year. After I remembered that, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you as Charlie and Bill’s baby sister. I’ve tried not to. I wanted it to be more, but…” He shifted to face her and picked up her hand, frowning at his thumb rubbing across her knuckles as he spoke. “Why do you think it took a year for us to get to this point? I wanted you to be sure that you were ready after… after everything you’d been through. But I… you’re just so _young_ and I just couldn’t make myself… And, hell, I’m not even sure _I’m_ ready... Siobhan and I were together five years and it still hurts when I think about her.”

Ginny pulled her hand out of Liam’s so she could wrap her arms around her knees. “It’s okay,” she rasped, closing her eyes to relieve the stinging. “I understand.” And she did... more than she could ever say.

“Ginny, look at me. Please…” His voice sounded so full of pain, but she couldn’t look at him. If she did, she’d lose it completely. He was quiet for a couple of minutes and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle and low. “Ginny, you’re still just as special as I first thought. I’ve never known a girl who could turn the world upside down like you do. You’ll find someone who’s right for you. I know you will. I wish it could be me, but… I’m sorry.”

Squeezing her eyes shut and breathing deeply through her nose, Ginny swallowed a couple of times to clear her throat. Her words came out like they’d been forced through a tube. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have let it go on this long. I’ve known for a while that I wasn’t sure… that you aren’t ready. Not for me, at least.”

Ginny hugged her knees tighter and dropped her forehead down onto them as she tried to hide the gasping breaths she was taking to keep the tears at bay. She _wouldn’t_ cry. Not now. Not in front of him. After a few moments, she heard Liam begin to dress. When he was finished, he stood next to the bed, close enough for her to hear him breathing, but he didn’t touch her.

“I’ll call tomorrow… to see how you’re—”

“I’m fine.” Ginny cut him off, shaking her head without lifting it.

He stroked a hand over her hair, pausing when a single sob escaped, but she bit down on it and he finally walked away. She held herself still until she heard the door to the flat click quietly shut.

***

Ginny dragged herself up the path to the Burrow, giving herself time to put her happy mask securely in place. Right now, she’d rather be anywhere else, licking her wounds and putting her dignity back together. But missing the Sunday family gathering would only bring a barrage of questions that she didn’t want to answer. After all, she’d been named the British Quidditch League MVP, her team had taken the League Cup, and she’d raised thousands of galleons for the children’s home. A mask shouldn’t be necessary; she should _be_ happy.

Instead, enough wool to make a Weasley jumper filled her head and glamour charms concealed the dark circles under her eyes. After Liam had left, she’d lain awake for hours, waiting for the tears that had never come, trying vainly to make sense of her emotions. She’d finally dropped into a fitful sleep full of vague dreams, and had awakened with the sun, feeling as hollow as an empty cauldron and anything but happy.

Unfortunately, happy wasn’t optional today. Her family expected happy. She’d give them happy.

A series of colorful explosions and welcoming cheers met her at the kitchen door. Everyone but Charlie was there and Ginny’s first thought was that they were all couples: Mum and Dad, Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hermione, George and Angelina... even Percy had brought his new girlfriend Audrey. Ginny couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like such an extra appendage. Fighting off the unexpected wave of loneliness, she managed to smile brightly at the congratulations and banter that kept up for much longer than she thought necessary.

They seemed to be buying the mask, but she nearly let it slip when her mother called out from the sink, “Ginny, dear, is Liam coming?”

 _Damn!_ Why hadn’t she realized someone would ask that? Ginny stuttered out the first excuse that came to mind. “No. He, erm, went to visit his mum. She... she wasn’t feeling well.” Great! Now she’d have to remember to warn him, in case someone asked after his mother.

The ruckus quieted once everyone had settled at the table and begun filling their plates, but Ginny couldn’t relax. She was still the “guest of honor” this week and had to make sure she played her role well if she wanted to fend off her family’s insatiable curiosity.

“Ginny, _please_ tell me that you’re not really cheating on Liam with Marcus Flint.” Percy’s disapproval was palpable.

With an exasperated sigh, she passed the potatoes to Bill. “Didn’t you read the story, Perce? I’m pregnant with his baby and we flew off to Australia last night to escape the wrath of my brothers.”

The groans and laughter took many minutes to die down.

“Ginny, your robes last night were _magnifique_ ,” Fleur said. “Madam Malkin worked her magic well, no? I have never seen the like.”

Ginny smiled her thanks. “Yes, she did. I told her about a dress I’d seen in Muggle London and she took it from there. It was perfect.”

“Hmpf! I can’t believe my daughter would walk out in public on display like that. It was positively indecent!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mum, I got your Howler.” She didn’t add that she had incinerated the envelope before it had a chance to screech at her. “The dress was fine. Nothing was showing that shouldn’t have. Magic, remember?”

“Hmpf!”

Everyone at the table fought to hide their grins until Molly had got up to check the treacle tart in the oven. (She served it every week “just in case Harry comes.”)

“So, how did the fund-raising go?” Hermione asked.

Ginny silently blessed her for changing the topic to something she wouldn’t have to pretend to be happy about, in spite of the twinge it triggered over Liam. “Brilliant! I got two thousand out of Flint and altogether we got nearly six.” She looked at Fleur. “How much more do we need?”

Fleur calculated silently in her head for a moment. “That should give us enough to hire one person, or perhaps enough for two part-time helpers.”

Ginny’s face fell. “We’ve got to think of something else, then. I think we’ve tapped out all of the Quidditch players.”

“You’re thinking too small,” George said. “Even if you find enough money to hire another worker for this year, you’re going to have to do it all again next year, and the next, and the next. You’ve got to think beyond individual gifts. You need something that will raise enough money in one go to lay a nest-egg that’ll provide income for future years.”

Ginny eyed him skeptically. “Well, that’s a great idea, but what?”

George shook his head as if he were drawing on great stores of patience to explain the obvious. “What’s the one thing that almost everyone in the wizarding world gets excited about? The one thing that you, dear sister, could have the most influence over?”

Ginny gave him with a puzzled frown. “Quidditch? But how—”

“Yes!” Hermione was nearly bouncing in her seat. Ginny half expected her to thrust her hand into the air. “A charity match. We could get all of the big names to play.”

The table exploded with excited voices as the rest of the family began to shout ideas over each other.

“…I know Wood and Spinnet would play…”

“…we could find a couple of big sponsors and rent booths to vendors…”

“…the _Prophet_ might contribute advertising…”

“…what if the Harpies played a team made up of celebrities who don’t play professionally…”

“Hang on!” George raised his voice to break through the cacophony. “Before we get too far along, we need a name to hang this on.”

“What’s the name of the home?” Audrey asked.

Ginny shrugged. “It doesn’t have a name, really. We just call it the home for war orphans or the children’s home.”

“We need something that everyone will remember,” George said. “I know! How about The Weasley Wizard Wheezes War Orphans Home?”

Ginny snorted. “Yeah and have everyone think it’s a big joke? I don’t think so.”

“If you really want to call attention to it…” Ron said as he swallowed a mouthful of sausage, “…name it after Harry. The only thing people get more excited about than Quidditch is the name Harry Potter.”

Everyone froze, trying to pretend they weren’t watching for Ginny’s reaction. Two years of practice allowed her to keep her expression blank as she lifted her cup to take a sip. George’s face had turned dark, but Angelina put a hand on his arm to keep him from making whatever remark was on the tip of his tongue... knowing George it wasn’t nice. One day soon, Ginny would have to talk to him about what had happened with Harry. But not today… she couldn’t deal with it today. When Hermione spoke up and drew everyone’s attention to the other side of the table, Ginny breathed a small sigh of relief.

“You know Harry would hate being the center of attention like that, Ron.”

“Maybe not, if it was for a good cause.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, he’d never want anything named after him. Buu-uut…” She tapped her chin with her finger and got a faraway look in her eyes. “I wonder… I’ll bet… oh, yes, that could work…” She cast a glance Ginny’s way before looking back at Ron. “Do you think he would object if we named it the ‘James and Lily Potter Children’s Home’?”

Ron’s face split with a huge grin. “You are absolutely brilliant! He couldn’t say no to that. And if he does object, he can just get his ruddy arse back here and tell us off.”

With that, planning began in earnest. Everyone got assignments; Hermione took notes. Before they were through, even George had agreed that using the nickname “Potter House” would make marketing and ticket sales much easier.

Lunch finally ended and everyone drifted off to play chess or talk babies, snooze around the wireless, or, in Mum’s case, tend to her knitting. Ginny escaped to her favorite bench at the back of the garden, relieved to finally be able to drop her mask. She inhaled deeply, letting the cool spring air and the staccato trills of an unseen songbird soothe the tension from her mind. Apple blossom and the first whiffs of honeysuckle wafted on the breeze, reminding her that this was home, the place where she could retreat when the world got to be too much... even if it was overpopulated most of the time.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Ginny drew her legs up to her chest and turned to make room on the bench. She had hoped Hermione would follow her.

“Are you okay?”

Ginny gave a derisive snort. “Am I that transparent?”

“Only to me. I know what to look for.”

Ginny dropped her chin to her knees. “Do they really think I’m that fragile that they can’t even mention Harry’s name without expecting me to fall apart?”

Hermione quirked up a corner of her mouth. “Probably. But, I really think it’s habit more than anything. Except that you’re a bit quieter, they pretty much think you’re back to your old self.”

Ginny smirked. “Guess I’ve got them fooled, then. That’s good.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah, tell that to Liam.”

“I thought something was wrong. Did you have a row?”

Ginny closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. “I guess you could call it that.”

“What happened?”

Staring off toward the orchard without really seeing it, Ginny told the story in a flat, quiet voice, leaving out only the details of the necklace and the birthmark. When she was finished, she waited without looking at Hermione, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes, but grateful for the comforting arm that slipped around her shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered. “I had hoped…”

“It’s okay. I think I knew it wasn’t going to work out. He was just… just too good for me. And none of you liked him, anyway.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Hermione pushed Ginny away and pinned her with a piercing glare. “No one is too good for you, Ginny Weasley. And what do you mean we didn’t like him? We did everything we could to let you know he was welcome.”

Ginny grunted a humorless laugh. “Oh, come on, Hermione. Everyone thought he was too old for me... every one of my git brothers threatened him with varying degrees of torture if he stepped out of line. I know you were all just tolerating him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We weren’t just tolerating him. They would threaten anyone you dated. He’s a wonderful man and if he’s what you want—”

“Ron doesn’t like him,” Ginny persisted mulishly. She wasn’t even sure why she was trying to pick this fight.

Hermione huffed. “Ron lives in his own little dream world. He thinks if he ignores the obvious, things will go back to the way he wants them. The point is we just want you to be happy, no matter who makes you that way.”

Ginny couldn’t stop her evil grin. “Even Flint?”

Hermione cuffed her on the back of the head. “Even you’ve got better sense than that.” She grew serious. “So how are you? Really?”

Ginny stared out at the orchard and gave her emotions a tentative poke. She’d been expecting that familiar crushing pain that made her want to curl into a ball and hide from the world, but in its place she found only sadness and loneliness, and more than a bit of embarrassment. Maybe she’d mistaken that guilt in her head for something different…

She gave Hermione wry smile. “I’m fine.” As Hermione’s expression turned skeptical, Ginny shook her head. “No, really. I’m fine. I... It’s okay.”

Hermione cocked her head. “I thought you loved Liam.” It was almost a question.

Ginny stood and paced before the bench a minute, running her hand through her hair as she sorted through her thoughts. Her feelings for Liam were strong. She’d really thought she’d found someone (else) she could spend her life with. Now, stepping back to see the whole picture, she realized that feeling comfortable and safe was good, but she wanted—needed—more.

“I did... I do… I’m just… I’m not _in_ love with him. I wanted to be. I should’ve been. I mean, he’s perfect! He’s sweet and funny and caring. And, Merlin, he’s got to be the most patient man on the planet. Why in the world _wouldn’t_ I fall in love with him?”

Hermione nodded. “But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Ginny whispered as an overwhelming wave of relief washed over her. She’d nearly made a horrible mistake... and, again, she had Liam to thank for keeping them both safe. She gave Hermione a wispy smile. “I keep thinking that it should hurt more. I mean, I’m sad… really, really sad, but…” She heaved a sigh. “I’m going to miss him so much.”

“Maybe not. Didn’t he say that he’d call to check on you? Sounds like he might be open to friendship.”

Ginny snorted. “I’ve tried that before, remember. It doesn’t work so well.”

“Yes, but before, _you_ were the one who broke up. And I don’t think Dean ever really gave up on his feelings for you, no matter what he said at the beginning.”

Realization broke over Ginny like the dawn and she faced Hermione with wide eyes and wonder in her voice. “This is the first time anyone’s broken up with _me_. I’ve always been the one to end my relationships… even when I didn’t really mean to.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “And since you’re not completely devastated over Liam, maybe the two of you can still be friends.”

Ginny laughed, relief blossoming in her chest. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. This doesn’t have to be a great tragedy, does it?” Her smile turned grim. “Wish I’d worked this out a long time ago.”

“You and Dean seemed to be on speaking terms at the Memorial Ceremony.”

“Yeah, but it’s still awkward. I think his engagement to Lisa helps, but we’ll never be _good_ friends, not like we were before.”

A heavy silence fell. After several long moments, Ginny finally gave in to the question that was burning her tongue.

“Have you heard from him lately?”

A flash of anger passed through Hermione’s eyes. “No. It’s been four months. Ron pulled some strings last week, though, and sent a letter with an Auror owl. If Harry’s smart, he’ll be here by the end of the summer. We’re tired of waiting for him.” Hermione’s eyes turned gentle. “Maybe the two of you can talk then, work through everything… at least be friends again.”

Ginny wondered briefly what they were waiting for, but she just smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m not going to hold my breath about being friends. I couldn’t blame him if he never spoke to me again. Besides, he’s moved on. I just need to do the same.”

Hermione frowned, but before she could argue, Ginny turned the conversation back to the charity Quidditch match. She was relieved when Hermione allowed the change with only a small sigh. Some things were best just left alone.

***

Monday dawned much brighter for Ginny. As promised, Liam had Floo-called Sunday evening, then had come through at her invitation and they’d talked while eating the leftovers her mother had insisted she bring home. In his sweet, gentle manner, he’d soothed away her embarrassment over pursuing him for so long. They’d agreed that they had been friends before things had got off track and, since they had to work together anyway, going through a lot of drama over their break-up would serve no purpose. Things were still a bit awkward and Ginny wondered how she’d feel when Liam started dating someone else, but overall, she was pleased that she had managed to make it through the emotional upheaval without falling apart.

Still, she was glad to have something to occupy her mind today. When she made her way through the hedgerow, she stopped short on the other side and laughed in delight at the colorful, crooked letters on the makeshift banner hanging from the low-hanging oak branches: _Happy MVP, Ginny!_ The children swarmed around her, dragging her over to a table decked out with their drawings where Mrs. Mason was setting out a huge platter of chocolate digestive biscuits while her mother poured pumpkin juice into small cups. Thrilled at pulling off the surprise party, the children clamored for Ginny’s attention... the little ones wanting to be cuddled and the older ones showing off their steadily improving Quidditch skills. More than an hour passed before Ginny had a chance to talk to Madam Mason about the charity match.

The matron clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, Ginny, that would be wonderful! We could do so much more for the children. I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, there is a small catch,” Ginny said with a wrinkle of her nose. “We think it would be easier to market the event if the home had a name.”

“A name? What kind of name?”

“Well, we were wondering if you’d be willing to name it The James and Lily Potter Children’s Home?”

Madam Mason’s eyes went wide and then welled with tears. “Oh, yes. That’s perfect. Harry would be so pleased.”

Ginny gave her a crooked smile. “Well, we hope so. Fleur is going to try to get in touch with him to be sure, but we may just have to go ahead with it, if she can’t reach him. We want to hold the match at the season break in November, but we have to begin promoting it soon, so we need to have the name settled to print on advertising and tickets and what-not.”

“I can’t imagine that he would object. He’s been so supportive of the children. Surely he wouldn’t mind. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“I’m so glad,” Ginny said with relief. “Hermione said that the next thing we need to do is register as an official charity with the Ministry. We’ll use the full name for the official records, but for marketing purposes we’re going to shorten it to Potter House.”

“ _Excuse_ me.”

At the cold voice, Ginny turned to find a man standing behind them, his arms clutching a bundle of blankets. Dressed in clothing that looked… different, somehow, his face was unremarkable except for his pale-blue eyes, like chips of ice, focused on Ginny with blatant anger. She took an involuntary step back, wondering what she had done to earn such animosity, as Madam Mason scurried over to him and gave a cry of concern when he dragged his glare away from Ginny and turned back the blanket corner to reveal a sleeping baby.

His eyes melted with affection as he gazed into the place below the riot of dark curls spilling over the soft green fleece. “Her parents were killed and we could not find any other family or neighbors who would care for her. She is from the Continent, and the children’s homes there are not so good as this one.” When he lifted his eyes to Madam Mason, they were soft and pleading. “Harry Potter found her. He wishes for you to care for her, if you have room for one more. He knows you are the best and he will assist with money. Please. She has nowhere else to go.”

Ginny held back her gasp of surprise at the mention of Harry, and only realized that the man had a slight accent when he told the cooing Madam Mason that the baby’s name was Natalia. The man’s face and eyes remained gentle as he turned the child over and even gave her a kiss on the forehead before Madam Mason bundled her into the house to settle into a cot. But as soon as the door closed behind them, his eyes turned to ice again and froze Ginny on the spot as he strode to stand in front of her.

“How _dare_ you? What right do you have to use Harry Potter’s name for your own ends without his permission?”

Ah. He’d heard her talking to Madam Mason. Ginny threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “We’re going to ask his permission, _if_ we can get in touch with him. But I suppose you’ll go back and tell him now.”

“Of course. And he will refuse. He does not like such attention. If you knew him well, you should know this. You cannot make such a decision on your own.”

Ginny had to admire the man’s determination to protect Harry’s interests but his cold fury was undeserved and she refused to back down. After all, her family had known Harry much longer than this man could possibly have. “For your information, I didn’t decide on my own. It wasn’t even my idea. My brother and his fiancée came up with it and they’re Harry’s best friends, so I think they would know better than you what he would want.”

The ice-blue eyes widened only a fraction before resuming their cold scrutiny. “Why would they do that? They should know better.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “And what makes you say that? Do you know them?”

The man’s eyes turned to ice again. “It does not matter. You cannot name this home after Harry Potter.”

Ginny couldn’t stop the smirk that took over her mouth. He’d heard only the end of their conversation—his arrogant attitude deserved a bit of revenge. “Not even if it means raising thousands and thousands of Galleons to support these children? Madam Mason already has to pinch Knuts to provide for the ones that are here and you’ve just brought another one.”

“He will pay.”

“He can’t support all of these children by himself... not forever, and not if he keeps sending more. My family is planning a charity event to provide investment income that will sustain this home for years. If Harry wants to help, the best thing he can give this home is his name.”

Ginny could almost feel the temperature drop several degrees from the frosty glare leveled at her. But his obviously condescending opinion was cut short.

“Hello, I’m Henry. Who are you?”

Ginny’s jaw dropped at the speed with which the man’s eyes melted into kindness as he knelt to speak to the self-appointed welcoming committee of one.

“Hello, Henry. Harry Potter sends his greetings to you.”

Henry’s eyes went wide. “He did? Oh, wow! Where is he? When is he coming to visit? Will you tell him that I’m learning to play Quidditch and I can ride a broom now?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow as the ice eyes flicked up at her before smiling with a bit of regret back at Henry.

“Harry has been very busy, but he will try to write to you soon.”

Henry’s face lit like a fairy light. “Thanks, Mr.—Mr.—what was your name?”

“You can call me Jakob.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jakob.” Henry took off across the garden. “Hey, Julia, guess what…”

Ginny watched him go as the man stood to face her, his eyes cool again, but not freezing. She sent her own frigid look at Jakob.

“You’ve made his day. I just hope Harry doesn’t let him down now.”

The ice thickened. “Why would you think that?”

Ginny snorted. “Harry hasn’t kept in touch with the people who consider him family. I can’t imagine he’d do any better with Henry.”

Jakob’s glare turned glacial. “Don’t worry. He will be in touch. You will not name this home after him.”

With a triumphant smile, Ginny watched Jakob’s retreating back. Arrogant git! Who did he think he was, anyway? As he reached the hedgerow, she called after him, not bothering to hide her smug tone. “We’re not naming it after him. We’re naming it after his parents.”

She didn’t watch for his reaction as she turned to go and play with the children again.


	35. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things NEVER go as Harry plans.

Wiping the sweat from his face with the towel draped around his neck, Harry ducked into the tent after his run and, almost without looking, caught the blur of parchment launched at him from the dining area. He studied the sloppy scrawl on the envelope for a moment, then gave Summers a puzzled frown.

“Where’d you get this?”

Summers shrugged. “Came by Auror owl with the morning report. Why? Who’s it from?”

“Ron.” Harry’s frown deepened as he wondered if something was wrong. Ron had always let Hermione handle the letter-writing.  

“Guess he got tired of the regular post owls trying to catch you between doses of Polyjuice. I reckon, he’s far enough along in training now to pull a few strings.”

“Yeah, I reckon,” Harry murmured distractedly, already starting to read as he sank into the armchair in front of the fireplace.

> _Harry,_
> 
> _Mate, you’ve got to come home. I’ve finally ~~tricked~~ talked Hermione into setting a date for the wedding, but we’ve agreed that we can’t get married until you can be here. If you don’t come now, we’ll probably never get married._
> 
> _I tried to talk her into eloping, but she says our mothers would join forces and kill us, or at the very least torture us until the first grandchild came along and we’re nowhere near ready for that yet. Of course, planning a wedding for both Muggle and magical guests might kill us, too. I think that’s partly why Hermione’s stalled this long—she knows she’s going to drive herself and everyone else mental over the logistics, and with both mothers involved, things are going to get ugly. That’s why we’re not going to leave too much time for planning—less time for everyone to kill each other over the details. I’m just going to keep my head down and stay out of it. I don’t really care about the wedding. I’ll be happy as long as Hermione’s happy and ends up with my last name. (Can you believe she’s going to take my name? I’m totally chuffed!)_
> 
> _Hermione wants to get married on 1 Sept. because that’s when we met and when we got engaged. And I think she’s also worked out that it’ll be an easy date for me to remember for our anniversary._
> 
> _Anyway, I know you’re probably in the middle of saving the world again or something equally important, but you’ll have three months to capture all of the Death Eaters and assorted criminals or at least tell them to go on holiday so you can have one. It’ll only be a week. Well, maybe two, with all the parties and fittings and whatnot. And, of course, we’d all be happy if you’d just come home for good, too. But, either way, please say you’ll come, Harry. I don’t want to wait any longer and if we don’t do it now I don’t know if I’ll ever get her to this point again. Don’t let me down, mate. Please come home._
> 
> _— Ron_

Harry read the letter twice more, his heart sinking with each word. Over the years, he’d grown used to Hermione’s tactics—logic, threats, guilt—to get him to come home, at least for an extended visit if not to stay. Leave it to Ron to come up with the only thing that could lure him back.

Not that Harry didn’t want to see them. He did. He missed them terribly—when he allowed himself to think about them. But he couldn’t afford to do that very often. Thinking about them led to memories and memories led to longing for things he couldn’t have, which led to feeling sorry for himself, which interfered with his work. Going back for a week, or maybe two, would be disastrous. Going back permanently was out of the question.

He hadn't been back in more than two years. Not for more than a few hours at a time, anyway—just his monthly visits with Teddy and meetings with Fleur. The one time he’d unexpectedly run into Ron and Hermione when he’d arrived unannounced at Shell Cottage to handle some business, he’d been thrilled to see them. But seeing them as a _couple_ , not just his two best friends, had made the visit bittersweet. Yes, he’d been happy for them when they’d finally got together after the war and, yes, he’d seen them show affection before. But this time… this time they’d represented everything he wanted and couldn’t have. It wasn’t their fault. He wouldn’t have things any other way. But it still _hurt_.

And now they were asking him to come back to share in their happiness… to watch as they claimed _his_ heart’s desires—love, home, family—for themselves.

He couldn’t refuse. They had stood by him during the darkest times of his life. Of course he would be there for them in their brightest times. And he’d be happy for them. Really he would. _Looking_ happy would be the challenging part.

A week! How could he possibly keep up an act for that long? Yes, he’d stayed in character for weeks on end during undercover missions. But Ron and Hermione _knew_ him. And Hermione, well… What were the chances that the wedding details would keep her preoccupied enough not to notice that he was putting up a front? Slim to none. And he didn’t even want to think about the other… complications.

Harry groaned and dropped his head against the back of the chair.

Ingalls looked up from the Ministry report spread out on the dining table. “Bad news?”

Harry sighed. “No, good news, actually. Ron and Hermione have set a date for their wedding.”

Summers flopped into the other armchair. “And?”

“And they won’t go through with it unless I’m there, and if I don’t come, Ron’s going to blame me for the rest of his life because Hermione wouldn’t marry him.”

“Still don’t see a problem, Potter.”

Harry scrubbed his face with a frustrated growl. “They want me to come for a week… maybe two. I can’t be gone that long.”

“Actually, you can and you should,” Ingalls said. “Robards has been after you for two years to take a holiday. Summers and I can handle things while you’re away.”

“We’ve got too much going on here! You think I should just up and leave in the middle of this operation? That’s absurd!”

Ingalls’s eyes flared with anger, but he managed to keep his voice calm. “If the Minister wasn’t so pleased with our progress in crippling Dolohov’s network, Robards would’ve forced you home long before now. They’ve never let anyone stay in the field as long as you have without a break. It’s unhealthy and dangerous.”

The implication that Harry was taking advantage of his “saviour” status irritated him. “I take breaks. I take a break every month, which is far more often than either of you,” he snarled.

Summers snorted. “Eight hours at a time doesn’t count.”

“It counts fine.” Harry growled. “I don’t need a break. I’d go barmy if I had to sit around and do nothing. I need to catch Dolohov.”

“At the very least, you need to go in for your annual physical and psych exams.” Ingalls had slipped into dad-mode. “You’ve missed two, now, and Robards is losing patience. He may order us to haul you in by force, if you don’t go in on your own soon.”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry scoffed, then grimaced at the look that passed between them. No doubt the order had already been given, but they knew as well as he did that trying to take him in would be a battle that none of them would win. He’d stayed away from the Ministry on his trips back for a reason: Robards was sure to chain him to a desk if he got too close.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Harry stood and headed for the shower. “Well, no need to worry about it now. Looks like I’ll be going back at the end of August. That means we’ve got a bit over two months to find Dolohov.”

“Yeah. Right,” Summers said through a poorly concealed grin. At Harry’s scowl, he tried harder to straighten his face. “Erm… be ready to go by six for our little soireé tonight, yeah?”

Harry welcomed the change of subject. “Did the new supply of Polyjuice come? We’re almost out.”

Harry usually stayed under the influence of Polyjuice all of the time anyway, but all three of them would need it tonight to take on the identities of two bodyguards and Count Navotny, who had been captured on a raid a month ago. Even though the Count’s legitimate elf wine production facility was well-known in the black market trade as a front for his more lucrative hallucinogenic potions business, the meeting with their latest contact would be a tricky one. Ingalls had identified and made initial contact with the Runespoor egg trafficker and Summers had developed the plan; he and Harry had laid the groundwork. As usual, Harry would take the lead role in their performance—he was the best actor, had the quickest reflexes, and was the most proficient at wandless magic.

“They sent the one-hour and twenty-four-hour formulas,” Ingalls said. “Which do you want?”

“This shouldn’t take more than an hour, but let’s each take an extra flask, just in case. If it takes longer than that, we’re probably buggered anyway,” Harry said as he turned toward the bathroom again.

“So, I can tell Robards you’ll be needing a couple weeks’ holiday at the end of August and that you’ll come in for your exams then?” Ingalls called after him.

Harry stopped and looked down at the letter in his hand. As much as he’d like to, he couldn’t refuse to go. He heaved a heavy sigh. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Harry made a face at the triumphant smiles Ingalls and Summers shared. Come to think of it, that’s probably the string Ron had pulled to be able to send the letter with the Auror report. Bloody conspiracy! Tossing the letter onto his bed, he headed for the shower. He’d work himself up to send an answer tomorrow when things weren’t so hectic.

***

Oblivious to the lingering chill in the air, Harry paced angrily in the grove of trees at the top of the hill as he watched the lights of the tiny village below flare to life in the deepening twilight. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this one bit. They were people, damn it! No one had the right to gamble their lives without their knowledge. But the only thing he could do was watch and wait and hope that he, Ingalls, and Summers and the small army of Polish Aurors hidden along the village perimeter were quick enough to prevent a disaster.

Even though Harry, Summers, and Ingalls had led the effort to shut down nearly three dozen of Dolohov’s village bases throughout Eastern Europe over the past couple of years, this was the first chance they’d got to stop a take-over before it happened. Their repeated infiltrations of Dolohov’s network had finally hit the jackpot when the meeting with the Runespoor trafficker two days ago had proved to be more successful than anticipated. As they’d arrived at the designated meeting place, they had overheard the trafficker arguing with someone in the next room about a shipment for Dolohov to this village—a village that they’d learned later hadn’t yet been taken over.

At times like this, Harry hated that they were forced to work with the various Ministries after discovering each of Dolohov’s bases. Holding little regard for the Muggles who made up more than three-fourths of the village population, the Polish Ministry for Magic had decided that evacuation would risk tipping off Dolohov—especially if any of the residents were already in league with him. Harry had been out-ranked, out-voted, and out-yelled, and then forced to accept their decision or be left out of the raid altogether. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Not when he was this close. Chances were slim that Dolohov himself would come tonight, but if one of the deputies were captured, the odds of finding Dolohov would jump considerably.

Harry stopped pacing for a moment to scan the outskirts of the village, then resumed his restless walk. They’d been watching for two days, waiting for the attack. Tonight had to be the night—the shipment was due tomorrow. Runespoor eggs meant that this base was destined either as a distribution hub for black market goods or a production facility for illegal potions.

Harry was hoping for potions. Draco Malfoy had some explaining to do.

For three weeks after the raid on the Hungarian village he’d infiltrated, Harry had puzzled over the huge gap left in his memory. One minute he’d been spending a boring evening in front of the fire with Dolohov’s deputy, and the next minute Summers and Ingalls and a team of Hungarian Aurors had been swooping in on a daylight raid that Harry didn’t remember calling. He’d finally put all of the pieces together on his fourth trip into the Pensieve—the reappearance of his Invisibility Cloak, the clipping from the _Prophet_ in his pocket, the enigmatic look in the deputy’s steel grey eyes as he’d Disapparated just before the shields went up. Harry was still furious at Malfoy for taking his memories, but he was even angrier with himself for apparently dropping his guard enough to allow it. Something _big_ had happened during that hole in time and he wanted to know what it was.

Harry stopped to stare into the dark portals leading into the forest surrounding the village, watching for any sign of attack. A stiff breeze and the pale silver light from the half moon hovering over the trees cast eerie shadows that writhed like a nest of Acromantulas. A sad smile tugged at Harry’s mouth as the thought reminded him of Ron and their childhood adventures. And the letter still waiting to be answered. Maybe tomorrow when things had settled…

A slight vibration in his wand, the alert signal, shot Harry’s full attention back to the edge of the forest. A cluster of dark cloaked figures had slithered from the shadows and begun casting containment wards to keep the villagers from escaping—fortunately, their perimeter allowed entry, if not exit.

This was the part of the plan Harry hated. They were to wait for Dolohov’s people to set up their net and begin rounding up the villagers before the Auror teams could come behind with their own anti-Apparition barriers and sneak in for the capture. The trick was doing it quietly enough to keep the Death Eaters from realizing what was happening until they had all been detained so that the fewest number of villagers were endangered. Even one Death Eater sounding an alarm could spell disaster for everyone. Harry was preparing for disaster.

Silently, he joined his anti-Apparition spell with the ones Ingalls and Summers were casting on either side of him to connect with the next teams in line; properly covering such a large area required a combined effort. They slipped quickly through the dark into position behind the nearest house, then dashed soundlessly down the alleyway into the village. Harry’s stomach clenched at the shouts and screams of the villagers who were already being dragged from their homes. Reflections of red and purple and yellow spells bounced off the night, but Harry hadn’t seen any green… yet.

He rounded a corner, then ducked back into the shadows, an arm out to halt Summers and Ingalls. Ahead of them and moving away were six Death Eaters—two rousting people from homes across the street from each other; two each at the front and rear of the group to keep the captives together and herd them like cattle to the town center. Moving in perfect sync, Harry and Summers cast Petrificus Totalis to take out the rear guard while Ingalls used a mild Confundus charm on the villagers to keep them from alerting the other four Death Eaters. But just as they shifted to attack the remaining Death Eaters in this team, the center of the village exploded. With a chorus of screams, the captives tried to run, parting enough to give the lead Death Eaters a clear view of Harry and Summers.

Harry swore viciously, hitting the ground and rolling to avoid the Stunner that exploded a fence post behind him. He came up casting—first a shield charm over as many of the villagers as he could manage and then a round of Stunners at the Death Eaters.

“Thought the Poles were going to keep that from happening,” Summers yelled over the ruckus as they dived behind a parked car for cover.

“Bloody idiots,” Harry growled between shots, one of which found its mark. “I _told_ them to send a team straight to the town hall. I _told_ them that’s the first thing they do every time to draw everyone out.”

Summers snorted as his Stunner blasted one of the Death Eaters against a tree. “And _I_ told _you_ that you should’ve gone in as yourself instead of using Polyjuice. They’d’ve listened better.”

Harry took a moment to glare. “We’ve got to move. A lucky shot and this car could blow. You and Ingalls can handle these last two, yeah? I’m heading in to see which deputy came.”

Before Summers could object, Harry dashed behind a hedgerow and down two alleyways to the village square. He’d visited the tiny town two days ago to become familiar with its layout. Now, he stopped short at the chaos on the street before him and took cover behind a commercial bin standing in the shadows between the buildings. Panicked villagers ran in terror as Aurors and Death Eaters—some holding human shields—lit the night with spells. A raging inferno triggered by the earlier explosion worked its way from building to building. Two gunshots rang out, silenced quickly by flashes of green.

Harry grimaced as he hoisted himself onto the bin to try to see over the mayhem. He caught sight of a blonde head—golden, not platinum—looming above the crowd. Thorfin Rowle. Black market, then. Not Malfoy, but a deputy just the same.

Harry swallowed his disappointment and jumped to the ground, dodging spells and working his way through the shadows. Rowle had to be taken alive if they were to get information about Dolohov.

Before Harry could reach him, Rowle took off down a side street, followed closely by two of his Death Eaters dragging a struggling man in Muggle clothing. Harry fought his way through a cluster of terrified villagers, thankful that his Polyjuice-self was taller than his real form so he could see over the crowd. Breaking free, he sprinted down the street, catching a glimpse of the thrashing hostage as they turned a corner. By the time Harry reached the turn, the group had arrived at a house right on the edge of the village, far enough away that Harry couldn’t get a clean shot. The man was bound to a tree and Rowle’s thugs were dragging a woman from the house behind it.

As he ran toward them, Harry could hear Rowle bellowing at the man as the woman was tied up next to him.

“You will pay for your treachery!”

“No, my lord, I set no trap! I did only as you said!”

The woman screamed in terror and agony as Rowle slashed his wand, spilling her insides from her body. The man let out a bone-curdling howl of horror.

“Nooo! Anna! My Anna!”

Harry cast a Stunner without breaking stride. His shot missed Rowle by inches.

Whirling, Rowle shouted to his thugs, “Shield me! I will deal with this traitor now. He will not escape his justice.”

Dodging behind shrubs and fences and rows of bins set out for collection, Harry fought desperately against the now-four Death Eaters. Rowle slashed at the screaming woman once more then turned his wand on the man.

When Summers and Ingalls dashed onto the scene, Harry yelled, “Stunners only! We need Rowle alive!”

The bound man’s chilling shrieks hung over the battle. Harry and Ingalls both managed to hit their targets, but three more Death Eaters had come to Rowle’s aid. Several Polish Aurors rounded the corner to join the fray. Two more Death Eaters went down. A flash of green whipped through the night.

Rowle fell.

“NOOOOOO…” Harry’s scream rent the sudden silence as the final Stunners took down the last two Death Eaters. His mind blank with rage, Harry tackled one of the Polish Aurors, pounding fists into the man’s face with a black fury he hadn’t felt since he’d chased Bellatrix Lestrange through the Ministry. “TWO YEARS! TWO YEARS WE’VE WORKED TO GET THIS CLOSE! WE NEEDED HIM ALIVE! ALIVE, YOU BASTARD!”

Wandlessly, Harry threw aside the other Aurors who tried to pull him away. He erected a shield and continued to pummel the man beneath him, heedless of the blood spattering everywhere from beneath his fists.

“HARRY! HARRY! STOP!”

His own name—not his Polyjuice alias—in Summers’s frantic voice broke through the fog in Harry’s brain. He dropped his shield, then put up a token struggle as Summers and Ingalls pulled him off of the man. Breathing in harsh rasps as he watched two of the other Polish Aurors move in to tend their comrade, Harry turned accusing eyes on Summers and Ingalls. “He killed Rowle. We needed him alive!”

“But killing this man won’t change anything,” Ingalls said in a soothing tone. “He might not have even been the one to fire the curse.”

Harry surveyed the crowd, now peppered with villagers, some holding wands. Any one of them could just as easily have cast the spell. The Polish Aurors were eyeing him cautiously—now that his mind was clearing, Harry wondered if they were more uneasy about the wandless magic or his immediate response to the wrong name.

He closed his eyes and slumped against the side of the house with a groan, willing his rage and frustration into submission. Two years’ worth of meticulous work... gone. They’d pieced together the structure of Dolohov’s network so carefully, identifying each of the deputies and their responsibilities (although Harry had never told anyone the true identity of the Potions deputy), knowing that the shortest route to Dolohov had been through his inner circle. Now, they’d have to start again. And with Dolohov on greater alert, the process would probably take much longer.

But Ingalls was right. Killing someone else wouldn’t change anything.

Harry drew in a heavy breath. “I’m sorry,” he muttered to no one in particular, feeling suddenly exhausted.

As the crowd began to stir, whispering quietly among themselves, another sound spilled into the night from the open door of the house.

Harry jumped to attention. “Oh, Merlin, no. Please, no.”

Wishing seemed only to make the baby cry louder.

With an anguished look at the mangled bodies still tied to the tree, Harry bounded into the house and up the stairs.

***

“Potter, you can’t keep her.”

“Shhh!”

Summers had spoken in a whisper, but it was a loud whisper.

Harry cast a glare at him and a wandless silencing shield over the camp bed before backing them both out of the tent with a bit more force than necessary. Once outside, Harry cast another shield over the tent to be sure nothing would disturb the sleeping baby. He flopped down beside the fire and jabbed it with a stick, sending blue sparks soaring into the night.

“Potter,” Summers tried again at full voice this time. “You can’t—”

“I know! I _know_! But I can’t exactly leave her by herself, either, can I?”

Three days had passed since the skirmish that had left the baby’s parents dead. The local authorities seemed more interested in rounding up the Stunned and injured Death Eaters and dealing with the aftermath of the major breech of the Statute of Secrecy than in tending to a newly orphaned child—especially when her parents appeared to have caused the problems in the first place. Not knowing what else to do, Harry had gathered a bag of necessities and anything that might lead him to other family members, and had brought the baby—Natalia, according to the writing on the back of a couple of pictures—back with them to camp.

“You don’t have to take personal responsibility for her,” Summers pressed. “Let the local authorities take care of her.”

Harry glared at him. “Yeah, which one should I turn her over to? The one who wanted to dump her on the first doorstep or the one who suggested selling her on the black market?”

“You could take her directly to the children’s home in Warsaw.”

“I checked it out. It’s full to overflowing and would make Azkaban look like Honeyduke’s. No way I’m going to leave her there.”

Summers sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Harry pressed his lips together and gave the fire another poke.

“You want some help finding her grandparents, or some other family member?” Summers asked with a sigh of defeat.

Harry cast him a grateful glance. “I don’t even know where to start looking. The one person listed in the family journal—a great aunt, I think—doesn’t live at that address any more and no one seems to know where she’s gone.”

“What about the neighbors? Would one of them take her?”

Harry shook his head as he ran a weary hand over his face. “None of the wizarding families would even talk to me. They’re afraid of retaliation since her parents were the ones who put the town in danger by working with Rowle. Doesn’t seem to matter that she’s a baby and couldn’t have stopped them.”

“Well, what about the Mug—”

“I’m _not_ leaving her with Muggles! How could they raise a witch?”

“The same way parents of Muggleborns do.”

“The operative part of that term is ‘ _born_ ,’ Summers. If she had been _born_ to Muggles, they’d already love her by the time her magic manifests. Dumping her on someone who isn’t magical doesn’t work. Been there, done that.”

The fire danced and crackled merrily, mocking the somber mood of its audience.

Summers finally broke the silence. “You’re good with kids. They like you.”

Harry shrugged. “I like them. And sometimes they just need to know an adult cares about them.”

Summers took his own poke at the fire and got a pensive look on his face. “You ever think of having any of your own?”

Harry snorted. “What kind of a life could I offer a child? I definitely wouldn’t want to be an absentee father. I already have a load of guilt over not spending more time with Teddy.”

“You could always go back and settle down.”

“And go completely barmy working a desk job. I don’t think so.”

“You’re already completely barmy. Besides, if you had kids, you’d have something to take your mind off work. Drive you barmy in other ways. I could see you with a dozen of ‘em hanging all over you.”

“A dozen! Merlin’s balls, Summers, what woman’s going to want to have a dozen kids with me? I haven’t even had a date in two years.”

“You know as well as I do that you could snap your fingers and have a hundred witches on either side of the Channel begging to have as many children as you wanted.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Hell, you could have one each with a dozen women.”

Harry pitched a stone at Summers; he dodged it easily with a laugh.

“I’d like to think starting a family is more than just sex.” Harry kept his voice light to mask the truth in his next words. “At any rate, I’d be scared to have a kid. You know what happens to people I care about.”

“Weasley and Granger seem to be doing all right.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, they’re the exceptions to the rule. In fact, you and Ingalls should watch yourselves—I’m starting to grow quite fond of you.”

Summers pitched the stone back at Harry. Harry didn’t bother to dodge as it nicked him on the shoulder.

Nodding at the tent, Summers’s voice grew serious again. “So what are you going to do?”

Harry shrugged. “I can think of a several people I would be willing to leave her with, but only one who I think would take her.”

“Hang on…” Summer gaped at him. “You’re not talking about taking her back to London, are you? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting a contact tomorrow night? And what if the next raid goes down before then? Besides, you just dosed up on Polyjuice again. With that new formula, you won’t be back to normal for at least a day, probably longer since you’ve been under for so long.”

“I know! I know!” Harry groaned in frustration. “I guess Jakob will just have to take her in the morning and hope for the best.”

***

Harry adjusted the blanket more securely around the bundle in his arms and, as the dark eyelashes fluttered a bit, held his breath for a moment to see if the baby would wake. So far, the trip had gone much more smoothly than he’d expected. She’d slept through the International Portkey and had been slumbering peacefully during the long walk from the Ministry, but he wasn’t sure how much longer the Consopius Charm would last. Good thing Ingalls had remembered the spell from traveling with his own children—Harry wouldn’t have had a clue.

Natalia snuggled against him, thumb in her mouth. Harry frowned down at her as he turned the final corner. He wished he’d had time to owl ahead so Madam Mason would be expecting them, but he felt certain she wouldn’t turn the baby away, no matter who was bringing her. He should be able to settle things quickly and get back to camp with plenty of time to spare before meeting his contact this evening. And, if his luck held, maybe he could get an earlier Portkey for the return trip. That would give him time to help Ingalls and Summers finish laying the groundwork for the meeting.

Harry paused for a moment outside the hedgerow and let loose a wistful sigh. He’d been away far too long. No doubt, the children, especially the younger ones, didn’t remember him—not that any of them would recognize him today anyway. But, even so, Harry felt a twinge of regret that he’d neglected them on his brief visits back. He never seemed to have enough time to do everything that needed doing.

His eyes went back to the baby in his arms. Smoothing a lock of hair from her forehead, he dropped a soft kiss in its place. “We’re here, little one. Don’t worry. You’ll be well cared for here. And perhaps you’ll find another family who’ll love you.” Harry knew that most of the children would never be adopted, but sometimes the youngest found homes. He felt sure this beautiful baby would be chosen quickly by, he hoped, a loving family.

Comfortable that things were working to plan for a change, Harry stepped through the hedgerow… and froze in shock. With his heart launching itself into his throat and his stomach dropping to his knees, his brain could focus only on two conflicting thoughts: _What the bloody hell is Ginny doing here?_   _Oh god, she looks good._

All of his instincts screamed at him to run. No one had seen him yet. He had time to get away.

But his feet wouldn’t move. And his eyes wouldn’t stop looking—no, devouring—Ginny. The way the sunlight danced on her hair, glinting off of the golden highlights and igniting the fiery reds, made his fingers itch to loosen the strands from the plait that spilled down her back. And, oh, what a back. And hips. And arse. The form-fitting long-sleeved t-shirt and low-slung jeans did little to hide the fact that time and Quidditch had obviously been very good to her.

For a moment, he watched the animated conversation Ginny was holding with Madam Mason. This was not the first time the two had met; they seemed too comfortable for that. Only when that realization hit did Harry take in the rest of the scene: the table spread with food, the childish decorations, the banner proclaiming _Happy MVP, Ginny!_ So, she’d won the league MVP again—Harry couldn’t stop the thrill of pride that ran through him. But the celebration meant that she’d obviously made a place for herself with the children, too. How long had she been coming here? A spurt of anger replaced the pride. How dare she take over _his_ place like that, no matter that he hadn’t been here in nearly two years?

Natalia squirmed a bit, drawing Harry out of his trance and reminding him of his task. He couldn’t leave, no matter who else was here—but he’d never been so glad to be under the influence of Polyjuice. He didn’t have time to deal with Ginny right now. All he had to do was get Natalia settled and be on his way. He could think about the implications of his reactions later—tomorrow or next week or… sometime before he came back in August. The air rushed from his lungs. He wouldn’t be able to bury this as he’d done for the past two years. He was going to have to face it—to face her—in just three months. But he didn’t have to do it today. Right now, he just needed to get in and get out. He had a contact to meet tonight and Dark wizards to track down. First things first…

Squaring his shoulders, Harry strode purposefully toward Madam Mason, trying his best to ignore Ginny as he took in further details of the garden and house. The roof and a couple of the steps needed repair and the whole house could stand a good paint job. He still had a hard time with the concept that magic couldn’t necessarily solve every problem if the witch or wizard was unskilled in the particular spells needed. Perhaps Fleur could find someone to do the work…

Harry came to a dead stop a few feet from Madam Mason as Ginny’s words filtered into his thoughts.

“…the next thing we need to do is register as an official charity with the Ministry. We’ll use the full name for the official records, but for marketing purposes we’re going to shorten it to Potter House.”

 _What?_ She was taking things entirely too far. He managed to clamp down on his fury, but he couldn’t keep the icy edge from his voice.

“ _Excuse_ me.” Harry sent his most piercing look of fury toward Ginny.

Ginny turned and took a step back, her face a study in surprise and confusion. Madam Mason scurried over and gave a cry of concern when he dragged his glare away from Ginny and turned back the blanket corner to reveal the sleeping baby.

His anger melted a bit as he studied the peaceful cherub in his arms and spoke to Madam Mason. “Her parents were killed and we could not find any other family or neighbors who would care for her. She is from the Continent, and the children’s homes there are not so good as this one.” He gave Madam Mason a pleading look, working through his head the best way to frame his request so as not to give away his identity. “Harry Potter found her. He wishes for you to care for her, if you have room for one more. He knows you are the best and he will assist with money. Please. She has nowhere else to go.”

Harry couldn’t miss the way Ginny’s eyes widened at the mention of his name, but he ignored her, trying hard to focus on Madam Mason. “Her name is Natalia. I have brought some of her things and a few pictures of her family, so she will always remember them. She has been under a Consopius Charm for several hours, so she will probably wake soon and be hungry.”

Madam Mason cooed gently over the baby and assured Harry that she would see to everything. Giving Natalia one last kiss on the forehead, he watched wistfully as the woman whisked her into the house. But as soon as the door closed behind them, he strode to stand in front of Ginny, giving his anger free rein.

“How _dare_ you? What makes you think you can use Harry Potter’s name for your own ends without his permission?”

Ginny threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “We’re going to ask his permission, _if_ we can get in touch with him. But I suppose you’ll go back and tell him now.”

“Of course. And he will refuse. He does not like such attention. If you knew him well, you should know this. You cannot make such a decision on your own.”

Ginny gave him a look that could melt a cauldron. “For your information, I didn’t decide on my own. It wasn’t even my idea. My brother and his fiancée came up with it and they’re Harry’s best friends, so I think they would know better than you what he would want.”

The words slammed like a sucker punch into his stomach. What potions were Ron and Hermione on to think he’d go along with this hare-brained scheme? He just barely stopped himself from blurting that very question and from using their names. “Why would they do that? They should know better.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”

In sudden panic, Harry wondered if she’d seen through his disguise; taking the offensive had always diverted attention in similar situations, so he went for it. “It does not matter. You cannot name this home after Harry Potter.”

Her ill-hidden smirk puzzled him, even as her eyes blazed with something that looked familiar but slipped just beyond his memory.

“Not even if it means raising thousands and thousands of Galleons to support these children? Madam Mason already has to pinch knuts to provide for the children who are here and you’ve just brought another one.”

Harry staunchly defended his stand, even though he knew she had a point. “He will pay.”

“He can’t support all of these children by himself—not forever, and not if he keeps sending more. My family is planning a charity event to provide investment income that will sustain this home for years. If Harry wants to help, the best thing he can give this home is his name.”

Harry could barely keep himself from throttling her with his bare hands. He’d gladly give every Knut in his vault to support this home, but putting his name on it was out of the question. If she’d ever known him at all, she would know that. But before he could unleash his venomous response, another voice interrupted them.

“Hello, I’m Henry. Who are you?”

The boy’s candid curiosity doused Harry’s anger in a flash. He dropped to one knee and worked to restrain his joy at seeing his self-proclaimed protector and friend. When had Henry grown so tall? Harry gave himself a mental shake and forced his way back into character.

“Hello, Henry. Harry Potter sends his greetings to you.”

Henry’s eyes went wide. “He did? Oh, wow! Where is he? When is he coming to visit? Will you tell him that I’m learning to play Quidditch and I can ride a broom now?”

Harry flicked his eyes up at Ginny, noting the smug look on her face, before he smiled with a bit of regret back at Henry.

“Harry has been very busy, but he will try to write to you soon.”

Henry’s face lit like a fairy light. “Thanks, Mr.—Mr.—what was your name?”

“You can call me Jakob.”

“Thanks, Mr. Jakob.” Henry took off across the garden. “Hey, Julia, guess what…”

Harry got back to his feet, determined to keep a tight grip on his temper. He needed to get out of here before he did something he’d regret. He almost felt a chill from the look Ginny was giving him.

“You’ve made his day. I just hope Harry doesn’t let him down now.”

His own voice grew colder, in spite of his intentions. “Why would you think that?”

Ginny snorted. “Harry’s hasn’t kept in touch with the people who consider him family. I can’t imagine he’d do any better with Henry.”

Harry clenched his jaw, struggling to control his tongue. “Don’t worry. He will be in touch. You will not name this home after him.”

Turning quickly to end the conversation while he had the upper hand, Harry kept his pace deliberate, but unhurried. Running, as he’d like, would give the appearance of defeat and he refused to be defeated. But just as he reached the hedgerow, Ginny fired one last verbal shot that halted him in his tracks.

“We’re not naming it after him. We’re naming it after his parents.”

He spun to face her, but she had already headed back toward the children and never looked back. He watched her for a moment, then ducked through the hedgerow and sprinted off as fast as he could. When he was only a couple of blocks from the Ministry, lungs burning with the need for oxygen, he slipped into an alley to lean against the side of a building, eyes closed as he gasped for air and tried to rein in his emotions.

What the hell were they thinking? He didn’t object so much to naming the home after his parents, but _Potter House_? That would only draw attention back to him. They’d have to find another way. He couldn’t it put off any longer—he’d have to respond to Ron’s letter. The last thing he wanted was to come back to Britain for any length of time, but he had no choice. Even if he was furious with them right now, he really did want to stand up for them at the wedding the way they’d stood up for him through the worst times of his life. This just added one more problem to the mix.

And that wasn’t counting Ginny. With a groan he banged his head against the wall. If just a brief brush with her like this could throw him so far off kilter, how was he ever going to stand being around her for a full week or more? He’d spent years building his defenses, containing the turmoil brought on by his memories and longings. He’d finally reached the point more than a year ago where he didn’t dream of her every night—or not that he could remember, anyway—and during the day, he rarely had even a fleeting thought of her.

Moaning in defeat, he finally gave up fighting off the onslaught of longing and allowed his mind to savor the encounter with Ginny. She had looked _so_ good—not like the last time he’d seen her, thin and wan and wretchedly unhappy. Apparently, the time that she’d asked for had been exactly what she’d needed. She seemed back to her pre-war, feisty self—in both looks and attitude.

He wanted her more than ever.

But that didn’t really matter, did it? She had sent him away because she couldn’t handle his dangerous work. Nothing had really changed, except that she’d moved on with someone else. He could long for impossible things all he wanted, but his life had always been like a game of Exploding Snap with fate dealing one lousy hand after another—and he could usually count on it to blow up in his face at the worst possible time. He’d learned a long time ago that he wasn’t meant to have a family and a home, and the best thing to do was accept that and get on with life. Wishing for the impossible was a waste of time.

Harry threw back his shoulders. Coming back to face her was inevitable. Seeing her now had actually been a great stroke of luck. Better to know what to expect than to come into it thinking he would have no reaction to her. He’d just have to make sure his walls were reinforced. He could do this. He’d just treat it as another life-or-death undercover mission. Dropping into character had become second nature; he’d just prepare himself for the role of his life.

With a determined nod, Harry pushed away from the building and headed toward the Ministry.


	36. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry returns.

Hermione tapped her spoon against her glass and the ruckus around the Weasley dinner table subsided. Ron stood, a folded page of parchment in hand, and cleared his throat to silence the lingering murmurs. “I... well, Hermione and I... we have something we’d like to share.”

Ginny sent a questioning look across the table, but Hermione just smiled—the girl could give Crookshanks competition in canary eating. Ear-tips blazing, Ron fumbled open the parchment and started to read.

> _Dear Ron and Hermione,_
> 
> _Sorry to take so long to get back to you. Things have been a bit hectic here, but your letter actually came at a good time. I’m told if I don’t take a holiday soon, they’ll drag me back kicking and screaming and chain me to a desk or some such. I’m glad you gave me enough time to tie up some loose ends, though. We’re in the middle of a fairly intense operation right now, so I’m not sure I can be away for more than a week. How would it be if I got there 25 August?_

At Mum’s excited gasp, Ron paused and held up a finger asking her to wait. Ginny sucked in a breath. Could this really be…? Ron tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin as he continued reading.

> _That would give me a whole week for your “parties and fittings and whatnot” and then I can get back into the field right afterward, before Robards has a chance to load me down with paperwork._
> 
> _I’m really happy for you. You’re my two best friends—my two first friends. You’re my family. Nothing could make me more proud than to stand up for you—both of you—at your wedding. But since I’ve only ever been to one wedding, you’ll have to write back and let me know what I’m expected to do._
> 
> _Oh, and you can forget about calling the children’s home Potter House. We’ll talk more when I get there._
> 
> _Harry_

Almost before Ron had finished, Mum burst into tears and launched herself at him and Hermione. “Harry’s coming home! And you’re getting married!”

Ginny had only a moment to register which bit of news Mum put first before the rest of the family erupted with congratulations and whoops of excitement… well, everyone except George. But Ginny was only vaguely aware of him watching her for a moment before he stomped out to the garden; she was too busy gripping the edge of the table, trying to withstand the mad clash of emotions ripping through her—joy, terror, hope, guilt…

 _Harry’s coming home,_ her heart sang.

 _But only for a week_ , her head taunted.

A week seemed an eternity when she honestly believed she’d never see him again. It was at least enough time to apologize, perhaps enough to mend the rift she’d created between Harry and her family, if not resolve her own. She tried valiantly to stomp down the hope that bloomed in her chest. Maybe they could be friends again… and maybe the friendship could grow… then maybe one day they could… no, she had to be realistic. A lot had happened in two years. He was with someone else, now. He might even bring her along. Oh, god, what if he brought her? But that wouldn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. Ginny could be an adult about it… still apologize, still offer to be friends… try hard not to hex the tart into oblivion…

“Ginny?” Hermione sank slowly into the now-empty chair beside her. “Are you all right?”

Ginny took one look into the worried brown eyes and blurted the unformed thought that flitted to the front of her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I would have, but we only got the owl this morning. Ron wrote to him weeks ago. Remember, I told you? He sent a letter by Auror owl?”

Ginny scrunched her forehead and vaguely remembered the comment Hermione had made when they’d talked about Liam. “Yes, but you never said why.”

Hermione lowered her eyes. “I know. I wanted to tell you, but Ron and I promised each other we wouldn’t say anything until we knew he would come. No point getting everyone excited about a wedding that might not happen.”

“Might not happen? Why wouldn’t it happen?”

Hermione looked back up with a wry grin. “I’ve been putting it off, you know. It’s just going to be so… so… gah! I can’t even _think_ about all of the problems we’re going to have trying to put on a wedding with Muggles present. Eloping would be so much simpler, but our mums would kill us.”

Ginny snorted. “Might be worth it in the long run.”

Hermione sighed. “I know, but I couldn’t do that to my parents, not after…” Hermione stopped and shook her head as if to clear away the guilt she’d expressed more than once over the years. “I’m their only child. Mum’s been dreaming of this since I was born, I think, and she won’t have another chance like your mum… Anyway, Ron’s been pretty persistent lately, so I told him if he could get Harry to come back, we’d do it September first. I mean, we can’t get married without Harry, can we? But I’ve been trying to get him back here since he left and I just never dreamed that Ron would be able to convince him so easily. Not that I don’t _want_ to get married, mind,” she dug her hands into her hair and pulled, “but, Merlin, it’s going to be a logistical _nightmare_!”

Ginny grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you through it.”

“You most certainly will.” Hermione sniffed. “You’re going to be my bridesmaid and I expect you to take on quite a few extra responsibilities, tradition or not.”

Ginny’s smile widened. “Well, of course I will. Who else are you asking?”

“No one. You’re it. You’re my best friend—my best female friend—and I can’t think of anyone else Ron and I need besides you and Harry. I’m going to keep this wedding as simple as possible, in spite of our mothers.”

Something exploded in Ginny’s chest—pride or gratitude or love—she couldn’t put a name to it. To be included so matter-of-factly in that sacred circle made her skin tingle. Of course, the fact that Harry was also part of that circle had nothing at all to do with the tingly feeling… not a thing.

“But you’re okay with it?” Hermione’s worried voice pulled Ginny out of her reverie. “With being around Harry?”

“I think so.” Ginny chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. I just... I don’t know what I feel right now. Everything’s all jumbled up inside.” She smiled sadly at Hermione’s deepening frown. “Don’t worry. I won’t go back there. And, besides, I’ve got three months to sort it all out, don’t I?”

Hermione’s face cleared. “It’ll be fine.”

Ginny nodded, but her attention was diverted when Angelina went out the door to the garden. “I should go and talk to George.”

Hermione cast a worried look out the window. “Yes, I think it’s time. Ron and I have both tried to talk to him, but I don’t think he’ll listen to anyone but you. He’s probably even angrier now because we can’t use Potter House. That Jakob fellow must’ve got to Harry. That’s the only way I can think he’s heard about it, since Fleur’s letters keep coming back. I hope George hasn’t got the adverts printed yet.”

With a heavy sigh, Ginny headed toward the garden door, but Fleur intercepted her to discuss how they needed to handle things once the press got wind of Harry’s return. By the time Ginny made it to the garden, George and Angelina were gone.

“Tomorrow,” she promised herself. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

***

Tomorrow took more than a month to come. The day after Ron and Hermione’s big announcement, George had left early for Dublin, and by the time he got back the following week, Ginny was dragging in from training every evening long after the shop had closed for the day. Sundays never seemed to be the right time, either, with so many people around. After several weeks of one thing or another getting in the way (and maybe a bit of procrastination on her part), Ginny realized that she would have to take the Niffler by the snout and just _make_ an opportunity.

On the last Monday in June, she hurried back from the children’s home early enough to catch George as he was closing up shop. From her spot in the doorway between the public and private areas, she watched, unnoticed, as he went through his usual closing-up ritual: waving Verity and Lionel off, locking the door, setting the wards, tidying displays as he worked his way back to the counter to empty the tills. He’d come such a long way since the war, making this business increasingly successful in spite of losing half of himself. A thrill of pride raced through her… followed quickly by a chill of dread.

Her stomach churned at the coming conversation, the thought of dredging up all those long-buried emotions. She’d never been able to bring herself to tell anyone what had happened between her and Harry—at least not the whole story. Hermione had surmised most of it without being told; Healer Andrews had heard only the bits and pieces that didn’t include the personal relationship with Harry. But tonight, Ginny needed to come clean. George had been trying to protect her all these years, believing that Harry had been responsible for her plummet into depression, when, instead, she’d needed protecting from herself more than from Harry. She’d meant to explain everything to George, but at first… well, she just couldn’t. Then, later, the time had never seemed right, and the longer she’d put it off and the longer Harry stayed away, the easier it had been to just let it be. The whole situation broke her heart. Harry and George had always got on so well and neither one of them deserved to be victims of her cowardice, but now she was afraid the damage couldn’t be undone. Just one more sin that she needed to atone for.

At her heavy sigh, George looked up from straightening the arrangement of Daydream Charms and broke into a brilliant smile.

“Ginnikins! To what do I owe this honor?”

Ginny smirked. “What? I need an excuse to visit my handsomest brother?”

His grin widened as he stepped behind the counter and waved his wand at the cash drawer to magically count and bag the day’s receipts. “Ah, now I _know_ you have an ulterior motive. I heard you use that one on Bill just yesterday.”

Ginny drew her wand and tallied the other drawer, using the task to stall for a few minutes as she got her thoughts in order. After the last of the coins jingled into the bag, she held it out to George and met his curious look with a somber one. “Do you have time to talk?”

His eyes lost their teasing twinkle. “Sounds serious.”

She couldn’t hold his gaze and shrugged as she watched the tiny Reusable Hangman make himself comfortable on the steps to his gallows, waiting for someone to continue the game in progress. “A bit.”

He studied her for a moment before sweeping his arm in a grand gesture toward the back rooms. “After you, milady.”

Dropping the moneybags onto the desk, he gestured for her to sit in one of the comfy arm chairs, then opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses. He filled them, handed her one, then lifted his in silent salute and threw back a mouthful. He didn’t sit. His expression told Ginny exactly how this conversation was going to go.

The glass trembled as she lifted it to her lips. After only a small sip, she set it on the desk and drew a steadying breath. “George, I—”

In a fluid movement, he set his drink on the desk, dropped to one knee, and gripped her shoulders painfully. “Do _not_ ask me to forgive that fucking arsehole. I’ll kill him with my bare hands before I let him tear you apart like that again.” His voice was a fierce growl and his eyes blazed into hers with hatred that she’d never seen in him before.

“George, no,” she wailed. “You’ve got it wrong. It was _my_ fault.”

“Your fault?” George exploded, rising to his feet. “How can you say that after what he did?”

“That’s just it. He didn’t do anything. Oh, Merlin. I’ve put this off too long…” She grabbed George’s hand. “Please, please just listen. I have to tell you what happened.”

George jerked away from her. “I know what happened! I don’t need the details. Whatever that bastard did made you think it was just fine and dandy to take a swan dive off your broom and be disappointed as hell to find me instead of Fred holding you when you woke up. You can’t make something like that be all right, Ginny, and you’ll never convince me otherwise!”

“But it wasn’t his fault!” Ginny jumped to her feet. “Damn it! Will you just listen to me?”

George stilled at her outburst, but his jaw was set. She softened her voice, pleading with him to listen.

“When I went back to school at the beginning of the year, I was already nearly round the twist from nightmares about Greyback, dreading his trial… and being back at Hogwarts, where so much had happened, well… things only got worse. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. During the week I was a holy terror, a prime candidate for the Janus Thickey Ward, if ever there was one. Ask McGonagall or Neville or anyone at school. Those things the _Prophet_ reported about my erratic behavior were mostly true.” She drew only a quick breath and choked down her emotions, not wanting to give him a chance to break in.

“I _lived_ for the weekends. Harry… he was my last link to sanity. When he went missing, I snapped. All I could think about was that if he was gone, I might as well be, too. And then, when he came back, I couldn’t bear knowing that every time he went on a dangerous mission—or just went to work every day—I might lose him again. So, I pushed him away. In my sick mind, I thought that I wouldn’t have to be afraid of losing him if he was already gone.” Her voice cracked dangerously, but she pushed on. “It didn’t work. I loved him _so_ much, but I couldn’t live with the thought of him being in danger and I knew he’d never be happy if I made him quit the Aurors. I felt so stupid and guilty and there was nothing I could do to fix it. That’s when I literally lost my mind and fell off my broom.”

She stopped, waiting for George to respond. From the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, his words didn’t really surprise her. “Then why didn’t he tell us? He saw you more than anyone. Why didn’t he try to help you?”

Ginny smiled sadly. “You don’t _really_ think I let on to him that I was barmy, do you? By the time he got there on Saturday mornings, I had put on all of my best make-up potions and fixed on my biggest smile. I made sure he couldn’t know.”

“That doesn’t make it all your fault, Ginny. He was at Hogwarts every weekend for months. _Months_! If he was supposed to love you so much, he should’ve noticed _something_. And, besides, when it all came out, he left. I told him just once— _just once_ —that he couldn’t see you and he walked away like nothing was wrong.”

“No! No, he didn’t! He came again. The day after… he came to see me and I told Mum to send him away. And he sent letters. He sent Hermione. He tried. And I was too stupid, too far gone to let him near me. I pushed him away.” Ginny swiped angrily at the tears that were suddenly blinding her. “Don’t you understand? I sent him away and gave back his ring in a bloody letter! I pushed him away… from all of us. I cut him off from the only family he’s ever had and I need to fix it. Even if I can’t fix it for myself, I have to fix it for the rest of you.”

Before she could blink, Ginny found her face pressed into George’s shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

“Shhhh,” he murmured into her ear as her sobs shook her. “It’s not your fault, love. You don’t have to fix anything.”

“Please, George, please don’t hate him. I’ll never forgive myself if you do.”

Ginny brought herself back under control as she waited several long moments for George to answer.

“You still love him.”

Ginny felt the words rumble through his chest against her ear, his anger still palpable. She pushed back to look into his eyes. “Since I was ten. I don’t expect that will ever change, no matter what.”

He gripped her shoulders, his eyes glinting with determination. “Please don’t hang all of your hopes on him, Ginny. He’s not that person anymore. I won’t stand by and watch you get hurt again.”

“I’ll be all right. I just want you to give him a chance—everyone to give him a chance, let him know he still has a family to come home to. Please, just don’t hate him anymore.”

Ginny held her breath as George studied her face carefully for a brief eternity before answering. “I won’t make a promise I can’t keep. But I won’t hex him the moment he walks through the door.”

She released her breath with a wry smile. “Or play any pranks or set any traps or slip him any—”

“Oh, all right. Fine.” George smiled reluctantly. “I’ll play nice, but only until he gives me a reason not to.”

Ginny gave him a crooked grin. “I guess that’s the best I can hope for. Just try to remember how you got your start as the Joke Shop Lord, yeah? You do owe him just a bit of leeway.”

With a sweeping look about the office, George snorted. “You play dirty, you know that?”

Ginny stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I learned from the best.”

***

“All done.” Summers hoisted the pack onto his back. “Ready, Potter?”

Harry glanced wistfully around the now-empty campsite and shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Summers’s eye-roll was exaggerated. “You act like you’re going to your own funeral. ‘Course, you might as well be, the way you seem so hell-bent on working yourself into an early grave. It’s only a week. Why can’t you just relax and enjoy it?”

“Dolohov can do a lot of damage in a week.”

“Yeah, and the Continental Ministries can step up and do what they should’ve been doing all along to deal with him.”

Harry scowled. “I still don’t understand why Robards has called the two of you back, too. All of us don’t need to be gone right now. What if—”

“It’ll keep, Harry,” Ingalls soothed.

“And why do we have to go back a day early?” Harry knew he was whinging, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“What are you fussed about?” Summers asked. “You get to go in, do your physical and psych and spend the rest of the week partying. We’ll probably get buried in paperwork.”

“See, all the more reason for the two of you—”

“Boys!” Ingalls held out the cracked teapot they were using for a Portkey. “Enough already. It’s almost time.”

Harry took a final longing look at the peaceful countryside. He knew full well that a week wouldn’t make that much difference to their never-ending search for Dolohov, but his stomach was in knots over what might happen while they were gone, both here and in Britain.

Britain scared him more. The letters had helped only a little.

Hermione had responded to his request for a list of his “wedding duties”: get fitted for a morning suit (they had opted for Muggle attire at the request of Hermione’s parents); make sure Ron survived the stag night his brothers were planning and made it to the wedding on time; hold the ring and present it during the ceremony; assist with keeping the magical part of the ceremony secret from the Muggles in attendance; and make a toast/speech at the reception. Harry also had to attend two pre-nuptial parties—one hosted by Hermione’s parents, primarily for Muggles, and one hosted by the Minister for Magic. The toast was the only thing that sounded remotely difficult.

The other letter, included with Hermione’s, had surprised him; it was from Molly Weasley. With the exception of Ron and Hermione and perhaps Bill and Fleur, Harry had been expecting his reception by the Weasley family to be less than friendly, if not openly hostile. But Molly’s letter had been warm and enthusiastic about his return—she’d said they’d all missed him. He was skeptical, but maybe they felt free to welcome him back now that Ginny was dating someone else.

Of course, Ginny was the one who worried him most.

He’d spent three months trying to sort out what to do about her and had come to a dismal conclusion: he was never going to get over his feelings for her. The progress he’d made over the past two years in putting her out of his heart and mind had been blown away like a feather in the wind when he’d seen her that day at the children’s home. All of his attempts to put her back into her assigned box in his head had failed miserably and thoughts of her had infiltrated his mind to the point of being dangerous—his distraction had nearly got Ingalls killed. So he’d given up and accepted that he’d just have to learn to live with it. Surprisingly, when he’d stopped fighting them, thoughts of her became much less distracting and he could concentrate on other things when he needed to… which was all well and good when he had absolutely no chance of seeing her. But what would happen when he had to face her almost daily, even for just a week?

He hoped that constant contact would lessen his sensitivity to her—the way he’d learned to tolerate and ignore the lingering pain in his shoulder from an old injury. But he wasn’t convinced that would work. In addition to having to see Ginny and talk to her because of their roles in the wedding, he knew he’d also have to touch her—Hermione had insisted in her letter that she and Ron wouldn’t feel complete dancing their first dance without Harry on the floor, but since three people dancing together would look ridiculous, he’d have to dance with the bridesmaid. Harry recognized the blatant move—it wouldn’t be the first time Ron and Hermione had pushed him and Ginny together—but he also knew he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. After all, as Hermione had said, _I know it doesn’t fit with tradition, but it’s my wedding and I can do things the way I want_.

In the end, he decided his best bet was to keep his distance—figuratively, at least, since doing so literally was unavoidable. He’d just have to build a wall of cordial civility to protect himself. Be polite but distant. A gentleman, but nothing more. It was a role he’d played many times and sustaining it for a week should be a cinch. After all, Ginny was with someone else now. He could do this. He’d have to.

With one last lingering look around, Harry grabbed the spout of the teapot just as it glowed blue.

***

Harry leaned against the doorframe and smiled at the memories conjured by the sight of Hermione poring over a document, surrounded by stacks of parchments and books on her desk. He remained silent, fondly studying the crease of concentration between her brows, her lips moving in silent discussion with herself, the curly tendrils escaping the tight knot of hair at the back of her neck. How many times had he seen her just like this during their years at Hogwarts?

Merlin, he’d missed her! He’d missed them both. The thought brought a small lump to his throat along with the familiar tug of longing for the things he couldn’t have. And for once, he allowed the memories and yearnings to fill him. What would be wrong with indulging his fantasies for a bit? Why couldn’t he pretend that things were as they used to be—as they should be—just for a little while? After the wedding, the past would well and truly fade away, but, maybe, just for tonight, he could recapture that inseparable bond the three of them had once shared… make one more memory to hold close in the empty years ahead…

As he began to wonder how long he’d have to wait to be noticed, she reached for a book at the corner of the desk and looked up. Her startled eyes met his bright smile for two full seconds before recognition hit. With a squeal, she nearly vaulted the desk, throwing herself at him with such force he had to take a couple of steps backward to keep them balanced.

“Harry! You’re early! When did you get back? Why didn’t you tell us?”

He chuckled as he returned her hug, warmed as much by her enthusiasm as by the familiar feel and scent of her. All of a sudden, he knew the real meaning of home.

“Got here this morning,” he said as she pulled him into the office and closed the door on the openly awed interest of her three staff members. “Robards insisted I had to come in early to do my physical and psych exams before I could go on holiday.”

Hermione smirked as she settled them both into the small wooden chairs in front of her desk and snatched up her wand to heat the teakettle on the sideboard. “A bit overdue for those, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you start, too,” Harry groaned. “I’ve had all the grief I can take for one day. The only one who hasn’t had a go at me is the Minister and I’m trying to get out of here before he catches me.” In truth, he’d breezed through both exams. The physicians had healed a couple of lingering injuries, leaving him pain-free for the first time in a year, and he’d managed to avoid all of the Mind Healers’s traps to get a glowing report, much to Robards’s exasperation.

Hermione looked tempted to keep taking the mickey, but she just sighed and shook her head, giving him that familiar you’re-completely-hopeless look. “So, have you seen Ron, yet?”

“Went looking for him at lunch, but his class is out at the flight course today. They should be back soon. Let’s go out to supper. My treat.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione gave her desk a despairing look. “I was planning to work late. I’ve got so much to get finished before I can take off next week.”

Harry reached over and gripped her hand with both of his, determined not to let her get out of this; he needed it too much. “You’ll always have too much to do. I’m going to be here only a week. Come out with me. Please. I’ve missed you both so much and everything is going to get crazy in a couple of days. Please, spend this evening with me. Just the three of us. Like old times.”

She looked back and forth between him and her desk three times. He gave her his best pitiful puppy look. She finally rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, all right. You always did know how to push my buttons.”

“Brilliant!” Harry pulled them both to their feet and gave her a quick hug before opening the door. “You delegate that stuff to your staff. I’ll go and collect Ron and meet you in the Atrium in—” he glanced at his watch “—twenty minutes. Don’t make me come back for you.”

Her wail of outrage at the time limit followed him out the door as he gave her gaping staff a cheeky grin on his way into the corridor.

She was ten minutes late, but Harry hardly noticed as he chatted with Ron and fended off the press with a wandless shield. Once she arrived, he hustled them over to the Apparition point so he could Side-Along everyone to the alleyway behind Rules, his favorite Muggle restaurant.

Harry was surprised that the maître d’ remembered him and quickly escorted them to a private room, in spite of not having a reservation. Dinner was delicious and the conversation entertaining. While Harry shared what he could about the search for Dolohov, Ron was full of gossip and anecdotes about his training and the people and politics in the Auror Division. Hermione’s announcement that she’d been named to a new position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was no surprise to Ron, but the boys eventually had to disrupt her discourse on how shaping legislation would do even more to advance her work for the rights of disenfranchised magical creatures, not to mention helping wizards and witches. They discussed friends, rehashed memories from school and the war, and talked about the charity match for the children’s home (Harry agreed to at least _consider_ the name Potter House)—all while neatly dancing around the elephant in the room.

The evening was everything Harry could’ve hoped for. He felt more relaxed, more like himself, than he had in years.

Ron dropped his spoon into his empty pudding dish and tipped back in his chair to ease the pressure on his bulging stomach. “Hey, mate. I have tickets for the Cannons’s season opener tomorrow. Want to come?”

“What, you’re not taking Hermione?” Harry asked with a smirk.

Ron’s chair tipped dangerously as he burst out laughing. Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re perfectly welcome to my ticket, Harry. I’m going to the office to make up for the time I lost tonight.”

Harry snorted. “You’d go to the office in the morning even if you hadn’t come out with us.”

“True,” Hermione said. “But you’d be welcome to my ticket even if I was planning to sit on the couch and read all day. I’m more than happy to make the sacrifice.”

“Yeah, come on, Harry. It’ll be one of my last flings before she snaps on the old ball and chain.” With a grin, Ron deftly dodged Hermione’s fist to his shoulder, grabbing her wrist and pulling her into his lap to plant a sloppy kiss on her mouth. She made a token struggle, but couldn’t contain her smile before she kissed him back and settled comfortably in his arms.

Harry averted his eyes as a stab of envy pierced him.

“So how ’bout it?” Ron said. “You’ll come, right? George and Bill and Dad will be there. Percy might even grace us with his presence.”

“Who are they playing?” Harry had only been trying to stall a minute while he considered facing so many Weasleys so soon, but he should’ve seen it coming. The fleeting look on Ron’s face before the casual mask fell into place said it all.

“The Harpies.”

And just like that, the elephant was dancing on the table and Harry’s fantasy evening was over. Without thinking, he snapped all of his defensive shields into place and slipped into character. The smile never wavered from his face. He kept his eyes focused on Ron’s and his voice steady. “Sounds like it’ll be a good match. Do you think the Cannons have a shot this year?”

Surprise flickered across Ron’s face and he paused only for a second before launching into his analysis. The diversion worked, as Harry had known it would, giving him time to sort through his thoughts. His plan had been to stay as far away from Ginny as he could get whenever he didn’t _have_ to be near her—but, Merlin, the temptation… He might never have another chance to see her play… and he wouldn’t have to talk to her or even come face-to-face with her. But he knew he’d never make it through the match with so many Weasleys watching him—they just knew him too well. Unless... No. No, he couldn’t risk it. Couldn't even consider it...

Turning his attention back to Ron, Harry realized that Hermione was studying him. His façade was still firmly in place, but she had that calculating look and he steeled himself for what he knew was coming.

Ron finished up his litany of Cannons’s strengths and weaknesses and gave Harry a hopeful look. “You’ll come, then?”

Running his hand through his hair, Harry put on his most regretful grimace. “I wish I could, Ron. It sounds great, it really does, but I’ve got some errands that I need to get done before I leave again and I don’t want to put them off too close to the wedding.”

Ron sighed and nodded as if he’d been expecting that answer. “Yeah, I understand. Maybe next time.”

Harry stifled the pang of regret. “Yeah, next time.”

“You’re going to have to face her eventually, you know.”

Harry had anticipated Hermione’s quiet words, but they still felt like a punch to the gut. For a split second, he considered playing dumb, but then discarded the idea because it was Hermione and she’d never buy it. He managed to look calm and shrug nonchalantly. “Well, of course I will. She’s in the wedding party, isn’t she?”

“And you’re okay with that?” Hermione’s eyes bored into him, as if she was working out the best path through his defenses.

Harry reinforced his walls and shrugged again. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She stared at him for a moment longer. Harry could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes and he wondered if she’d taken up Legilimency. “Hmm…” she finally breathed, then looked at Ron. “It’s getting late. We should probably go.”

Harry called for the bill and they meandered silently toward the secluded alleyway they were using as an Apparition point.

“Harry, you want to come over for a nightcap?” Ron asked.

“I’d better not.” Harry faked a yawn. “I’m a bit knackered after all the poking and prodding at the Ministry today. I think I’ll turn in so I can get an early start in the morning.”

He was fairly certain they didn’t believe his flimsy excuse, but Hermione just gave him a hug. “We’ve got a thing for my family tomorrow evening—some distant cousins and such who won’t be at the wedding since we’re keeping it small to minimize the Muggle and magical interaction. But, we’ll see you Sunday at the Burrow, right? You’re the guest of honor, you know.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, I told Mrs. Weasley she didn’t have to do that. You all have a enough on your plates right now.”

Ron grinned. “Oh, you know Mum, Harry. Any excuse to cook. I think she’s trying to make up for missing so many of your birthdays.”

“Yeah, that’s what her letter said,” Harry sighed. “Who else will be there?”

“Mostly family, Andromeda and Teddy, and a few friends from Hogwarts—Neville and Hannah, Luna, Seamus and Lavender, Professor McGonagall, maybe Hagrid if he’s back from the Continent.”

Harry’s jaw fell open. “Hang on. Neville and Hannah? Are they—?”

“For months!” Hermione said. “I keep forgetting how out of the loop you’ve been. We need to catch you up on all of the news.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

“You sure you won’t come to the flat with us? We have a guest room. You don’t have to go rattle around Grimmauld Place all by yourself.” Ron asked.

Harry shook his head, giving him a look of regret that wasn’t entirely contrived. “Thanks, Ron, but I need to check up on Kreacher and make sure everything is okay there. We can go for a pint after our fitting on Monday. Just the two of us.”

With a final hug and a small pop, they disappeared into the darkness. Harry stared at the spot where they’d been for a long while before he turned on his heel and walked back into the dark London streets, taking the long way round to Grimmauld Place.

***

Ginny stormed into the locker room, ripping her protective gear from her arms with violent force, refusing to acknowledge Gwenog hot on her heels.

“Weasley! What the bloody hell _was_ that out there? You played worse than a Confunded first-year Hufflepuff!”

Keeping her eyes focused on the wall, Ginny continued yanking off her uniform and slamming it onto the bench. “It was the heat, all right? It’s too effin’ hot out there to even breathe much less concentrate!”

“Not good enough,” Gwenog snarled. “You’d better come up with something better than that for the press, and quick.”

Ginny’s anger morphed into panic. She whirled around, eyes pleading. “No! Gwen, please, not today. Please take Flo or Val. I—”

“Too bad, Weasley. You made yourself the news today. Ten minutes. Be there.”

Glaring at Gwenog’s retreating back, Ginny finished ripping off her uniform and stomped toward the showers, swearing a blue streak as her teammates scrambled to clear a path for her. She turned the cold water on full blast and stepped under the icy stream, desperate for anything to cool her raging temper and jangled nerves.

The heat _had_ been a factor in the game—the whole team had complained of it—but that Bludger clipping her broom tail and sending her perilously close to crashing into the stands hadn’t helped, either. Especially since she’d come almost nose-to-nose with that Jakob character from the children’s home. She’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Wasn’t he supposed to be in Bulgaria or someplace? That creep had stalker-fan written all over him—Ginny should know; she’d dealt with her share of them.

Of course, the heat, near injury, and stalker fans were the least of her worries—mere annoyances that wouldn’t have made her blink on a normal day. No, the real problem hadn’t even arrived on the scene yet… or at least she hadn’t seen him, even though he’d taken over her brain. And she was quite certain that everyone, especially the press, knew exactly why she’d played her worst game since her last year at Hogwarts. They were going to eat her alive.

She finished showering and dressing, taking extra care with her hair and make-up, all the while concentrating on the relaxation techniques Fleur had taught her. The face staring back in the mirror smoothed into the calm, confident mask she’d practiced endlessly in the early days of her career to hide the turbulence in her mind and stomach. She could get through this. She had to.

“Weasley! Salter! Hargest! Let’s go!” Gwen slammed the door behind her.

Ginny drew in a deep breath and followed her teammates into the interview room. The Cannon players had just settled at the table, but the reporters threw only a half dozen questions at them before restlessly turning their attention to where the Harpies were standing. After another awkward moment, the Cannon players gave a collective shrug of resignation and stood to change places with the Harpies.

Ginny had barely settled into her chair before the first question was lobbed her way.

“What happened out there today, Ginny?”

Trying to put off the inevitable, she gave her best flirty smile. “Weren’t you there? We won.”

The press corps chuckled for only a moment before opening fire, ignoring her teammates and giving her little chance to answer one question before the next one came:

_What threw you off your game?_

“The heat.”

_Do you think the Cannon Beaters were targeting you?_

“They were only doing their job.”

_Do you think having a bye this week will affect your next game?_

“No.”

_Was the heat the only factor today or was there something else?_

Ah, they were finally getting to it. The churning in her stomach intensified. “What, you don’t think playing in an oven would be enough distraction?”

_Your brother is getting married next weekend. Do you think that had a bearing on your concentration?_

“No.”

_Was it Harry Potter’s arrival in London yesterday that affected your performance today?_

“Harry came back yesterday?” Ginny couldn’t help blurting the surprised question; the resulting silence was deafening. She quickly schooled her face as her stomach clenched dangerously.

With a decidedly predatory gleam in his eyes, Jasper Jinks pounced with the follow-up to his question. “It was in all of the papers this morning. He left the Ministry with your brother and Miss Granger last evening. I take it you didn’t join them for supper, then? So does that mean the two of you won’t be getting back together?”

With her heart battering at the base of her throat, Ginny clenched her hands beneath the edge of the table to keep anyone from noticing how badly they were shaking. Securing her best mask of disdain, she arched one eyebrow and lifted her chin as she met Jasper’s gaze steadily. “You know I don’t read the papers before a match. You also know the rules, Jasper. Those questions have nothing to do with Quidditch. I’m done here.”

As she headed for the door, Ginny caught Gwen’s slight nod of approval, but she’d have left even without it. She silently blessed George for insisting on keeping the Quidditch-questions-only interview clause when her contract was renewed—she hadn’t invoked the privilege since she’d first been made a starter and had almost signed without it. Of course, Fleur would have her head later for not flirting her way out of that line of questioning; leaving at this point was as good as an admission. But her calm was shattered and nothing could have kept her in that room.

Harry had come back a day early, and Ron and Hermione hadn’t told her. They had some explaining to do.

***

Ginny shifted her load of plates and cutlery and stepped from the kitchen into the garden, taking a deep breath of the cooler air left by the overnight thunderstorms. A soft breeze hinted at autumn hiding just around the corner and carried the honeyed scent of meadowsweet from the surrounding fields. She wondered fleetingly if Mum had gathered some of the fragrant flowers to brew another batch of shampoo soon. Ginny’s supply was getting low and she really hated buying the kind from the shops; she could never find any that worked so well on her hair, not to mention that they never reminded her so much of home.

Home. Ginny swept a gaze over the garden and house. Not much had changed in the past few years, even though her parents were more financially comfortable than they’d ever been. Well, nothing had changed except the people who called this place home. They’d all grown up and moved away to make their own lives. But most of them came back at least once a week. All but one of them, anyway. And today he was finally returning. The thought made Ginny’s heart race with anticipation and terror. She had absolutely no idea what to expect when Harry arrived.

Of course, Ron and Hermione had been no help when she’d crashed through their Floo as they were leaving for the Granger pre-nuptial party. They’d apologized profusely and sworn that they hadn’t meant to throw her to the vultures by not warning her. Hermione said she and Fleur had tried to send word, but Ginny had blocked her Floo as she always did the night before a match and had apparently missed their two owls when she’d left early for the pitch because she couldn’t sleep. Gwen’s strict rule about no contact with outsiders before a match had also kept Fleur from getting a note past security at the stadium.

Before they’d had to dash off to their party, Hermione had shared only a few details about their visit with Harry—he was fine and didn’t seem anxious about having to face Ginny again. Something in Hermione’s eyes, like she was trying to work out a puzzle, had told Ginny she hadn’t got the whole story, but she wasn’t sure Hermione would tell her, even if they’d had time to talk. 

So now, after a second sleepless night, Ginny was doing her best not to let it show how anxious _she_ was.

She’d taken pains with her appearance, applying just the right amount of make-up to cover the evidence of her long night, then brushing her hair until it nearly glowed and leaving it loose the way Harry had always liked it. After changing clothes six times, she’d ended up wearing the first thing she’d put on—not one of her many designer outfits, but the light-weight moss green jumper and short denim skirt that she’d worn when Harry had come to Hogwarts the day after they’d first made love. Of course, then, she hadn’t been eating properly and the garments had hung a bit loosely on her tiny frame. When she’d put them on today, she’d had to enlarge them a bit to account for her fuller figure, but she’d done so only enough to make them fit without earning complaints from Mum—no reason not to take advantage of her new curves.

She knew she looked good, or as good as she ever had, but then looks had never been her strength. Even though she couldn’t compete with Fleur or that Russian bimbo with their freckle-less skin and perfect bodies, Harry had seen something in her once. And even if he was no longer attracted to her, at least knowing she looked her best might give her the confidence she needed to apologize. If she could just get through that, then maybe…

The back door banged open and Mum bustled out to the garden, radiant with joy, humming a lilting tune, and trailed by a bobbing parade of steaming serving dishes. Mum hadn’t been this happy since Percy had come back into the fold after the war—she really did consider Harry one of her own. Ginny winced at the stab of guilt that sliced through her. She and her mother had their differences—Dad said they were a bit too much alike—but she’d never intended to hurt her mother by driving Harry away. And she liked seeing Mum so happy. Ginny strengthened her resolve to make amends with him, if for no other reason than to keep that smile on her mother’s face.

“Ginny, dear, can you bring out the drinks?”

With a nod, Ginny headed back into the kitchen. As she stepped through the door, Angelina and a scowling George tumbled from the Floo.

“Is the git here yet?” George growled, brushing the ash from his shirt.

Angelina punched him in the shoulder. “Behave!”

Ginny turned pleading eyes on George. “You promised you’d give him a chance.”

“No, I didn’t,” he grumbled, sullenly rubbing his shoulder. “I only said I wouldn’t hex off his bollocks the minute he got here. But if he steps one toe—”

He broke off with a grunt as Angelina jabbed her elbow into his ribs. She smiled sweetly at Ginny. “Don’t worry. I’ve got him under control.”

Ginny smiled her thanks as Angelina yanked George gracelessly out to the garden. Through the door Ginny could see a group of friends and family making their way up the lane. When a dark head came into view among the reds and blondes and light browns, her stomach flipped and she forgot to breathe for a moment. But then they shifted about and she could see that it was Neville smiling in wonder at Hannah Abbott—he still couldn’t believe that she was willing to date him. Ginny drew in a shaky breath and tried to calm her frazzled nerves, then jumped slightly when a warm arm wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned with relief into her father’s embrace as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

“You look lovely today. I still can’t believe my little girl is all grown up.”

She turned in his arms and gave him a proper hug. “I’ll always be your little girl, Dad.”

“Yes, you will,” he breathed into her ear. “And nothing you do will ever change that.”

With a squeeze, he released her and wandered into the garden to greet their guests. Ginny followed him with her eyes, grateful that he always seemed to know just the right thing to say at just the right time.

She finished gathering the glasses and pitchers onto a tray and headed back to the garden. As she stepped out the door, the commotion around the gate forced her to focus all of her attention on getting the tray to the table safely. How she managed it, with her heart pounding and her knees trembling, she’d never be able to say. The moment she’d been anticipating for more than two years had finally come…

Harry was home.


	37. Face-off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny come face-to-face... finally.

Flowers. Honey-sweet flowers.

The scent nearly took Harry’s breath away. Not that it was strong. In fact, it was a mere hint on the gentle summer breeze. He wasn’t even sure what kind of flowers they were that dotted the surrounding fields, but their scent was enough to release a flood of memories that nearly drowned him in an instant—rescue by flying car, lazy summer days, pick-up Quidditch games, family dinners, food and more food… Ginny.

Harry had Apparated under his Invisibility Cloak to a secluded spot on a hill behind the Burrow. He wanted to check things out, get a feel for the situation before he walked into it, but he hadn’t counted on this assault on his senses. He’d forgotten how powerful the sight of that beloved crooked house could be. One of only two places in the world that he’d ever considered home and the source of most of his happiest memories, it tugged at heartstrings he thought had long been severed. Added to the familiar hustle and bustle of dinner preparations in the garden and that flowery scent, it was as potent as any love potion. He was glad he’d allowed himself time to become accustomed to the effect.

As he watched the activity below, Ron and Hermione Apparated onto the lane beyond the garden wards, followed quickly by several others—Neville, Hannah, Seamus, Lavender, and Luna, or so it looked from this distance. Before the first group had finished greeting one another, Bill, Fleur, and Victoire, unmistakable from any distance, appeared and joined the festive crowd headed up the lane.

Harry drew a deep breath. He could do this. He’d managed to keep his head during that close encounter with Ginny yesterday, hadn’t he? Unable to make himself stay away, he’d given in to temptation and gone to her match—it would be his only chance ever to watch her play. He knew he should’ve used his cloak instead of the one-hour Polyjuice potion, but damn! Who would’ve dreamed that, out of that huge crowd, her near-accident would have brought her eye-to-eye with _him_. She’d recognized him instantly—well, recognized Jakob—and she hadn’t looked happy to see him. Harry had left before he could be tempted to seek her out after the match.

Of course, going to the children’s home after the potion had worn off hadn’t helped either, what with the end of the match playing on the wireless while he visited. Ginny had thoroughly won the children’s hearts, and he couldn’t escape their talk of her without raising questions he didn’t want to answer.

With a quiet snort, he wondered yet again at the way the Fates seemed to enjoy toying with him. Well, today he’d take back the upper hand. He’d made his choice more than two years ago; turning back now wasn’t an option. As much as he wanted to reconcile with the Weasleys, he couldn’t let them—any of them—get too close. No giving in to temptation. No testing his limits. No allowing his emotions and yearnings to get a grip on his heart. He’d treat this week like any other mission—get in, hit his marks, and get out as unscathed as possible.

With renewed resolve, he removed his cloak and Apparated onto the lane.

***

Ginny was glad to have a reason not to be part of Harry’s welcoming committee as she willed her trembling hands to maneuver the clinking tray of glasses safely to the table. Her wand flicked unsteadily as she distributed the glasses while she watched Harry from beneath her lowered lashes. She had spent three months (or maybe two years) preparing herself for this moment, rehearsing every possible scenario in her head, giving herself mental pep talks, sketching out just the right tone of voice and facial expression to respond to any comment. What she hadn’t prepared for was her body’s visceral reaction to the sight of him, the jolt of pure desire that shook her to the core.

At first glance, he didn’t seem to have changed much. His hair was as messy as ever and he still wore glasses. But on closer inspection, she noticed that his haircut made him look more tousled than untidy and his stylish new frames fit his face better than the old round ones. A shadow of stubble along his jaw and a sharpness to his features made him look more man than boy. He was still lanky and lean, but he carried himself now with a commanding confidence and taut muscles rippled beneath the close-fitting jeans and white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled back to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. He looked like a finely tuned instrument that her fingers suddenly itched to play.

With a smile that seemed a bit too fixed, Harry bravely endured Mum’s effusive hug and gave Dad a hearty handshake, then swept a gaze across the friends and family gathered in the garden. When he looked Ginny’s way, his passing glance made her lungs seize, because that’s all it was. A passing glance. A slight inclination of his head in her direction. No emotion at all. Nothing that would indicate that what they’d had together had meant anything to him… that _she_ meant anything special to him.

She’d prepared for any number of reactions he might have: nervous anticipation, open hostility, or even refusal to acknowledge her at all. But not this! This cool nod and bland smile was nothing more than he might offer to a stranger on the street... and said clearly that she was no more important to him than that.

Acutely aware of George’s scrutiny, Ginny fixed her eyes on the table, careful to keep her composure in spite of the gnawing ache in her chest. When she realized she was nervously working her invisible lightning bolt pendant back and forth on its chain, she dropped it and busied her hands with realigning the dishes and cutlery on the table to keep from having to look at anyone or talk past the growing lump in her throat.

“Hello, Ginny.”

Ginny jumped and jerked her head up. How had he made his way across the garden without her noticing? “Ha-Harry. Hi. H-how are you?”

She knew she sounded like a babbling buffoon but she couldn’t seem to make her brain and mouth cooperate. With everyone else pretending not to watch their exchange, she struggled to pull herself back together as he began to speak again. But she couldn’t focus on his words, not with him standing there, thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans, looking like a model out of one of her Muggle fashion magazines. Hope flared in her heart, then died a gruesome death as she stared into his face… listened to his voice. She couldn’t fault the hint of a smile, the perfectly polite tone, the apparently appropriate words that made no sense to her muddled brain. In spite of them all, he seemed… distant. Aloof. Indifferent.

And more than anything, his eyes told the story. They had changed. Not dramatically. In fact, no one else might even notice. But Ginny had spent years watching Harry’s eyes and they were definitely not the same. Once lively and warm, dancing with mischief or filled with passion and compassion and determination, they now seemed empty, cold. Even their color seemed tainted, the vivid bottle green she remembered gone pale and brittle like summer leaves too long without rain.

Ginny realized suddenly that he’d stopped speaking and seemed to be waiting for an answer to some question that she hadn’t heard. She tried to force her brain and mouth into action, but before she could stammer out a coherent word, three-year-old Teddy shot like a green blur from the back of the garden and launched himself at his godfather.

“Ha-wee! Ha-wee! Ha-wee!”

Harry caught him in mid-leap and hugged him close as he spun around, then dropped to one knee and held out an arm to Teddy’s two-year-old shadow.

“Ree! Ree! Ree!” Victoire squealed gleefully as she ran into Harry’s embrace and threw her arms around his neck, babbling in her own English-French-toddler gibberish that he seemed to understand perfectly. The pure joy on his face as he nuzzled and talked to the two children made his earlier smiles look painful.

And then Victoire’s word hit home.

 _Ree_.

In shock, Ginny shot a glare at Bill. He had the grace to look abashed and slipped around the edge of the crowd to stand behind her.

“I would’ve told you,” Bill murmured into her ear, “but he made us swear not to say anything. He said he didn’t want to put us in danger if the wrong people found out that he came to visit. We didn’t tell anyone, not even Mum.”

Afraid of losing control, Ginny refused to look at him, instead keeping her eyes on Harry as he tickled and teased Teddy and Victoire with familiar ease. When she could finally speak, her voice was tight and accusing. “I suppose Ron and Hermione knew.”

Bill’s tone was sad. “Only because they were there one time when he came.”

 _But he couldn’t be bothered to stay when I showed up._ Twice… that she knew of. Ginny drew in a deep, steadying breath.

“Gin, I’m sor—”

“Don’t! It’s okay. I... I need to be sure everything’s been brought from the kitchen.”

Knowing that Bill’s—or likely everyone’s—eyes were following her and that George was probably ready to attack, Ginny forced her face into a calm mask and straightened her back as she walked into the house. She managed a semblance of a smile at Percy and Audrey, who had just come through the Floo, and kept her pace casual as she climbed the steps to the bathroom. The door might have banged a bit, though, as she locked it and sank to the floor in a heap.

Pulling her knees to her chest, she couldn’t stop the moan that echoed around her throbbing heart as the truth slammed home. In all of her planning and preparation, she’d never anticipated this empty, emotionless… dismissal. No matter what she’d told Hermione or George—or herself—she could no longer deny that she’d been clinging to the conviction that the moment she and Harry were face to face again, everything would be okay, that even if they had some initial awkwardness or problems to work through, they’d eventually live happily ever after. But, instead of the fairy tale, she was suddenly faced with the black pit of despair she’d fought so hard to escape, opening like the mouth of some great monster, flicking out its tongue to draw her in, with no knight in shining armor to save her this time. Her knight had just told her in every way but words that she didn’t exist in _his_ dreams anymore.

Ginny closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, letting the minutes tick by as she replayed the scene with Harry over and over in her head. How was she supposed to face him when she was in danger of throwing herself at his feet? Would he even notice, or just casually step over her and walk away? 

The distant bang of the kitchen door drew her back to the present. She knew she had to go back downstairs soon or someone—George most likely—would come looking for her. And she couldn’t let anyone see her like this.

Oh, god, what should she do now?

_Just get on with life… be yourself._

The voice was so clear in her head, Hermione might as well have been standing in the room. Ginny had been down this road before, trying so hard to catch Harry’s eye, knowing he might never notice her, and this time around she had even less reason to hope. But Hermione was right. She couldn’t give up on herself, even if she had to give up on Harry... although, she was quite certain that her heart never really would.

Firmly pulling herself out of reach of the pit, she stood and faced her own haunted eyes in the mirror. A quick flick of her wand fixed her smudged makeup as she stiffened her spine and gave herself a determined glare. She had an apology to make. Even if he didn’t accept it, she had to do it… for herself.

***

The Weasleys had been friendly and welcoming and the party had gone better than Harry had expected, once he’d got past the hardest part. He’d had to do it. Not speaking to Ginny would’ve been as good as announcing from the rooftop that she still had a hold on his heart and he’d had to make it look like she was no more or less important than anyone else at the gathering. It hadn’t gone too badly considering that they’d had a too-interested audience and her reaction had puzzled him a bit, but he’d been grateful for Teddy’s interruption, just the same.

After supper, Harry had circulated casually—listening to Ron and Seamus rehash the Harpies-Cannons match, talking with McGonagall about the incoming class at Hogwarts, feigning interest in Percy’s droning about Ministry regulations, discussing the latest sighting of a Crumple-horned Snorkack with Luna—all the while making sure to stay at the apex of his orbit around Ginny.

Under normal circumstances, slipping into this role would take little thought or energy, partly because he would be able to blend into the background. But, in this setting, as the guest of honor, everyone was watching him... especially Hermione and, surprisingly, Ginny (he stored that knowledge away for later review). Harry had one over on them, though. Being able to watch without being obvious about it had turned out to be the most useful skill he’d learned while working in the field. At any given moment, he could say exactly where everyone at the party was and to whom they were talking, making it quite easy to stay as far away from Ginny as possible without drawing attention to the fact.

But much to his chagrin, he found he couldn’t _help_ but watch her—not just to keep his distance, but to feast on the sight of her. In fact, he could barely keep himself from striding across the garden and physically devouring her. Ron and Hermione had no idea what they had asked of him. His head knew that enough time had passed for Ginny to no longer affect him, but his heart refused to listen as it pounded frantically at his ribcage, doing its best to escape and throw itself shamelessly at her feet to be stomped on. He’d come expecting to see some fit bloke hanging all over her; finding her unescorted made keeping up his ruse all the more difficult. His façade of indifference remained intact only through sheer force of will.

As the party had begun to wind down, Harry settled into a chair next to the house facing out into the garden so he could keep track of everyone without having to move around. Various people had joined him over the past hour, but the crowd had dwindled down to just family members who were making noises about returning to their respective homes. Harry nestled Victoire more comfortably against his shoulder, smiling as she mumbled in her sleep, while he quietly chatted with Bill and Fleur and nursed the same bottle of Butterbeer he’d faked drinking all evening. Ginny was helping to clear away the party debris, circling the group slowly, inching closer with every pass.

Harry watched her warily. Two years of living on the edge had taught him loads about reading people and, right now, he didn’t like what Ginny’s body language was telling him. When she’d returned from that brief disappearance, she’d looked more composed and more… determined, for lack of a better word. That determination seemed to be growing by the minute.

No doubt, a confrontation was brewing.

Harry considered his options. He was tired from the strain of keeping up his act, and should probably wait to face this after a good night’s sleep. But his decision had been made and he would be gone again in a week. Clearing the air now would likely make the rest of his time here easier for everyone.

With a long pull on his tepid Butterbeer, Harry prepared himself for battle. The time had come to face his demon.

***

Ginny watched Harry pass Victoire over to Bill and say his goodbyes as the couple headed inside to use the Floo. Most everyone else had gone. Mum, Angelina, and Hermione were in the kitchen; Dad, Ron, and George were moving the tables and chairs back into the house. When Harry melted into the shadows at the back of the garden, Ginny hesitated only a second before following.

She found him in the corner farthest from the house, his back and one foot propped against a tree, his arms crossed casually, his face hidden by the night. He stared off toward the orchard, immobile as stone, but she could sense that he was aware of her presence. That was another of the biggest changes in him—that awareness. Nothing seemed to escape him now, even though it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. She would also bet he knew that she’d been watching him all evening and would follow him. Courage roared through her at the thought that he might’ve come out here so she _would_ follow.

She stepped cautiously into view, illuminated in a pool of moonlight, careful to keep her distance. As the silence grew palpable, all of the pretty speeches she'd practiced in her head through the years vanished, and her chalky tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed thickly and forced her voice to work.

"Nice party, wasn't it?"

He didn't speak, didn't move… didn’t hex her. She took it as a good sign.

“I've missed you.”

He remained silent for a moment, and when he did, his voice was quiet, unemotional. "I wouldn’t think you’d have had the time."

"Not have the time? Why… ah, the press." She sighed heavily. "You, of all people, should know you can't believe everything the press puts out."

“Touché.” Through the deep shadows, she thought she could see the corner of his mouth quirk up. “You seem to have got over your fear of them. And they seem to like you, for the most part.”

Her lips twisted into a wry grin. "Yeah, well, Gwen—Gwenog—sort of took me under her wing when I first started with the team. And Fleur trained me. Hermione helped, too. They showed me how to make the reporters work for me, not the other way round. Well, most of the time, anyway."

“They taught you well,” he said as he continued to look into the night.

The silence descended again, like a thick fog between them. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out the feelings that were bubbling to the surface. This wasn't going as she'd planned. But he hadn't walked away… and he hadn't sent her away. That had to be a good sign, didn't it? Perhaps if she said what she needed to say, she could draw him out further.

“Harry, I... I want... no, I _need_ to apologize.”

“For what?” His tone said he had little interest in the answer.

Ginny wished he would look at her properly. She couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t tell what he was thinking, how he was feeling. He didn’t seem inclined to make this easy. All right. She didn’t deserve easy. Drawing a steadying breath, she took a bold step forward and started again.

“I need to apologize for what happened before… for sending you—”

“No apology necessary.” His voice remained neutral but firm, cutting off further discussion.

She waited several moments for him to explain. As the silence grew, panic filled her chest, constricting her lungs and pushing her heart into her throat.

“Why?” The small word came out as a puff of air, barely audible even to her own ears.

He was so still, she thought for a moment he’d stopped even breathing. The sound of the night creatures seemed to fill the space between them like a solid wall. When he finally spoke, she had to lean forward to hear the words.

“You said it yourself. I’m an Auror. I can’t stop. We got a tip on Dolohov and I had to go. I _chose_ to leave. And when the wedding’s over, I’ll leave again.”

She struggled to make the words make sense. He’d left by his own choice. And he would leave again, apparently with no regrets. She’d carried her burden of guilt for more than two years for absolutely no reason.

“Oh.” It was all she could manage. Her lungs had shut down completely and she was gasping for breath. “I... I see.”

Oh, god, she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t break down in front of him. Summoning her anger—the best defense she could produce at the moment—she sent him a burning glare.

“Thanks for letting me know. I hope it all works out for you.”

Spinning on her heel, she marched, stiff-backed, into the kitchen, brushing George off with a terse, “I’m fine,” and ignoring the bewildered stares of the rest of her family in the kitchen as she Flooed home.

****

Harry was three steps after her before he realized what he was doing and drew up short. He hadn’t meant to be so cold, to hurt her like that. But if that flash of pain in her eyes meant what he thought it did, his mission had just become ten times more difficult.

He retreated into the shadows and closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the tree, drawing deep breaths to help rein in his emotions. Surely he had read her wrong. No. All of the signs he’d been trying to ignore since he’d arrived added up to only one answer—he’d never in a million years imagined that she might want him back. He sagged in despair. Hurting her wasn’t part of the plan. Hell, he’d never dreamed that he _could_ hurt her. Hadn’t she moved on? She was with that Liam bloke… had been for more than a year… all of the newspapers and magazines sai—Harry gave himself a mental dope slap. What kind of Auror was he, depending on those rags for his intel? But, then, who could he have asked without stirring up suspicion? He’d miscalculated badly. The question now was what to do about it? He could apologize, but that might raise her hopes and complicate matters more. Perhaps things had played out for the best, after all. The final outcome would be no different. And he saw no point in going down the same dead end road more than once.

Harry had almost got himself back together when the kitchen door slammed open and angry footsteps made their way toward him.

“What the bloody hell did you do to Ginny?” Ron’s voice was quiet with barely controlled rage.

Harry tensed, but didn’t move from the tree. He kept his voice low and void of emotion.

“She asked me a question. I guess she didn’t like my answer.”

Ron ran both hands through his hair, then threw them into the air as he paced in a small circle.

“When are you going to get your head out of your arse and think of someone besides yourself for a change?”

Ron’s cold fury was as effective as a sucker punch at getting Harry’s attention. This was another factor he hadn’t counted on. He remained silent as Ron continued to rant.

“I don’t know what your problem is, and to tell the truth, right this minute I don’t give a rat’s ass. But let me tell you something.” He poked a finger into Harry’s chest for emphasis. “This is our wedding. It’s our once in a lifetime big day and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and let you fuck it up!”

Harry swallowed hard and stared at the ground. “I... you’re right. I’m sorry.” Looking up, he heaved a heavy breath. “I knew it was a mistake to come. I’ll—”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Ron shoved Harry none too gently back against the tree. “You’re not going to back out on me now. You said you’d stand up for me and I intend for you to do just that. Hermione and I agreed we couldn’t get married unless you were here. If you leave, the wedding’s off.”

“What? You’re barmy! You can’t be—”

“Just shut it, Potter, and listen up.” Ron bent down to put his nose in Harry’s face. “You’ve got a week. A week that you’re going to get your arse in gear and act like you’re happy for us. And you’re going to have to work out this _thing_ with Ginny. I know the two of you’ve got one helluva history to plow through, but you’re going to have to figure out how to make Hermione believe that you’ve become best friends so we can have a happy wedding. You got that? If you won’t do it for anyone else, you have to do it for Hermione. You owe her that much. Both of you do.”

Harry groaned inwardly as his chance for escape slipped away. How much harder could this week get? But he couldn’t argue with the truth. Harry straightened his spine and flexed his jaw. “You’re right, I do owe her. I owe both of you.”

Ron relaxed slightly and stepped back, giving Harry an appraising look. “Hermione’s right. You’ve changed.” Harry snorted as Ron continued. “You’ve become a right hard bastard, haven’t you?”

Harry’s twisted smile matched the bitter tone in his voice. “You spend a couple of years in the field. You’ll understand.”

Ron started to reply, then paused and changed the subject. “Harry… I know it’s none of my business, but you and Ginny—”

“You’re right,” Harry cut him off quickly with a glare. “It’s none of your business. Just stay out of it.”

Harry held the searching gaze steadily until Ron finally gave in with a sigh, then crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, you know? It’s gonna have to be one hell of an acting job to fool Hermione.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said tightly. “I can handle it.”

***

“Hey, Weasley. You got a visitor.”

Ginny didn’t take her eyes from her own face in the mirror, but she could still see Violet’s manic grin over her shoulder. “Yeah? Who is it?”

“Only England’s most eligible bachelor and the most gorgeous piece of manflesh I ever laid eyes on.”

Ginny steeled her face not to show the sudden plunge her stomach had just taken. The changing room had grown quiet and everyone suddenly seemed to be looking her way. “Thought you said I had _a_ visitor,” she said, eyes still fixed on her own reflection.

Violet nodded, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Oh, yeah. They’re one in the same.”

“You don’t mean—” Rhoda gasped.

“Yep. Harry Potter’s standing outside.”

Ginny grimaced as most of the team let out a collective squeal. Great! Just what she needed.

“You’re not really going to let him just stand out there and wait, are you?” Violet asked in wonder.

Ginny snorted in a very unladylike manner. “He can bloody well wait until pigs fly for all I care. Besides, what’s it to you? You don’t play for that team.”

“For a prince like him, I’d switch.”

“More like a frog, warts and all,” Ginny muttered as she put the finishing touches on her makeup, cursing her trembling fingers. That last bit of blush and extra lip gloss were because the press and the fans might be at the door, _not_ because Harry was waiting. She checked the Disillusionment charm on her necklace, just to be sure, and tucked it inside of her shirt.

“What’s your problem with him? Isn’t he like family or something?” Josie asked. “Oh, wait! You used to date him, didn’t you? If you’re all done with him, can I have a go?”

“Knock yourself out,” Ginny said as she stowed her things in her locker.

“You won’t get far,” Violet warned Josie. “He’s got some sort of shield around him or something. People recognize him and head in his direction, then kind of wander off without talking to him. I watched for five minutes and not a soul ever spoke to him. And he’s just standing there staring at the door.”

Ginny gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Sounds just like something Harry would do. Stupid prat.”

In the two days since she’d seen Harry, Ginny’s anger had conquered her despair and her rage needed an outlet. Truth be told, she was far angrier with herself than she was with Harry—he hadn’t really done anything except fail to comply with her fantasies—but he’d made himself just too irresistible as a target for all of her pent up frustration. Besides, if she didn’t hang onto her hurt and anger, she might do something really, really stupid. Already, a wave of hope was welling up to douse her fury; she dammed it up with a growl. She’d already had to listen to the children sing his praises yesterday (no, she absolutely _hadn’t_ been hoping he’d show up) and now her teammates were joining the chorus. She was furious, damn it! And she planned to stay that way as long as possible... or at least until he apologized.

Ginny took one last look in the mirror to be sure her face didn’t betray her inner turmoil, then stepped from the changing room into the small knot of fans waiting at the door. Momentarily blinded by the camera flashes behind them, she pasted on her usual smile and reached for the parchment and quill offered by a young girl, making small talk while she automatically signed for the half-dozen fans. She forced herself not to look in Harry’s direction as she made a mental note of the unusually large number of reporters present. Under normal circumstances, only a few reporters and maybe a dozen or so fans showed up at practices—today the numbers were reversed and increased. She wondered briefly if the press had come today because of her poor performance on Saturday or because of Harry’s presence, then shook her head at the idiocy of that thought; of course they were here for Harry.

Resentment flared and she had to work to keep it from showing on her face. If he didn’t want her, then he could bloody well stay away. This was _her_ world. She’d worked hard to make her place in it and he had no right to barge in like this and muck things up.

She finished signing the last parchment and looked at the press with a strained smile. “No questions today. I’m late for a fitting.”

They shouted at her anyway, but she pushed past them, trusting the security staff to give her a chance to get away. She never looked in Harry’s direction as she headed toward the gates, trying hard to keep from sprinting full out. She hadn’t got far before he caught her by the elbow.

“Ginny, can I have a word, please?”

She whirled, intending to give him more than one word and not the ones he was expecting, but he cut her off with a brilliant smile that didn’t match the warning tone in his voice. “Smile. They can still see us, even if they can’t hear.”

Fleur’s training kicked in and Ginny immediately relaxed her body language and tipped up the corners of her mouth, but she was reluctantly grateful that he still held her elbow as his smile devastated her defenses and turned her knees to jelly. Maybe he _had_ come to apologize. Maybe… but no. His eyes still weren’t right. They seemed greener today, but still cool and aloof. She desperately stoked the dying flame of rage as she reclaimed her arm with, perhaps, a little too much force.

“ _A_ word?” she said, allowing her voice to carry her anger even while her face remained calm. The flashes from the press corps threatened to ignite the grass and shrubs.

“Yes. Well, more than one, maybe.” His smile never wavered, but his tone held no warmth. “I wanted to apologize for making you angry Sunday evening.”

Ginny’s heart skipped a beat and hope began to leak through the weak spots in her dam, but then he continued.

“We need to be able to get along this week... for Ron and Hermione’s sake. This is their wedding. We can’t spoil their big day because… well, I know things will never be like they were when we were kids, but we’re adults now. We should be able to at least _act_ as if we’re friends for a week… for their sake.”

“ _Act_ as if we’re friends.” Ginny went numb. He wasn’t asking her to _be_ his friend, only to _act_ like it. For Ron and Hermione’s sake. She turned and started walking toward the gates, knowing he would follow, but unable to maintain her façade for the press any longer. His showing up here made so much more sense now—a public place with reporters for witnesses. When had he become so Slytherin? And how was she supposed to say no without looking like a complete bitch? “You want us to _act_ as if we’re friends,” she continued flatly as he fell into step beside her. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Whenever we’re in public, we smile at each other, talk, laugh… you know, act like friends.”

“But only in public?” Ginny stopped and turned to face him. They were far enough away from the press now that she didn’t have to keep her face in check. “What about when we’re not in public? What about when we’re alone?”

Something flickered through his eyes, but it was gone too quickly to identify. “I’ll only be here a week and with everything that’s going on, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about being alone together. But, if it happens, feel free to act any way you choose toward me.”

Ginny had to bite her tongue to hold back a bitter laugh. He apparently had no idea what she’d do to him if that were true, and she was certain he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, even if she couldn’t, at this moment, decide if she’d attack him for sex or with a hex.

“So will you do it? For Ron and Hermione?”

She stared into his earnest gaze and wanted to throttle him and kiss him at the same time. With a sigh, she nodded. “For Ron and Hermione.”

His brilliant smile was enough to melt her into a puddle, but she gritted her teeth and turned once more toward the gate. He fell into step, and they walked silently to the Apparition point. Ginny’s irritation flared again. He knew what he was doing—the press would see them leave at the same time and assume they were going somewhere together. The headlines tomorrow would be wild. Oh, Merlin, how was she going to get through this week?

***

When Ginny arrived, still scowling, at Madam Malkin’s, Hermione was already perched on the stool in her wedding gown. The seamstress flitted about making final adjustments on the dress, a simple, but elegant, white beaded sheath with a train that would be pulled up to form flounce on the back of her dress after the ceremony, to keep it out of the way for dancing. Ginny smoothed her face into a smile, but not quickly enough to keep Hermione from frowning.

“Is something wrong?”

Forcing her smile into something more believable, Ginny sent a significant look at Madam Malkin’s back. “No. Just a lot of press at the pitch when I got finished with practice.”

Hermione nodded her understanding and waited for Madam Malkin to bustle into the back of the shop to retrieve Ginny’s dress before asking again, “What’s wrong?”

Ginny sighed, knowing she’d never escape Hermione’s interrogation. “Nothing, really. Just…” She paused to gather her thoughts. How much could she get away without saying? “Just, well, Harry was there. No, it was good,” she added quickly before Hermione could pick her jaw off the floor and start asking questions. “He just wanted to apologize for… for our… our misunderstanding the other night. We got things sorted. Everything’s fine.”

The wave of relief that washed over Hermione’s face forced Ginny to admit that Harry had been right. She hadn’t realized how much Hermione had been worrying over them and how close they’d come to ruining her best friend’s wedding.

“I’m so glad! I—”

Whatever else Hermione had been going to say turned into something trivial as Madam Malkin returned with Ginny’s gown and shooed her behind the curtain to change. Ginny sighed as the silky fabric sluiced down her hips and swirled around her feet. After growing up in second-hand clothes, she really did love wearing beautiful things. Hermione had left the style of the dress up to Ginny, making the soft apricot color the only requirement—a concession to Ron’s request for Cannon’s orange. Not wanting to compete with the bride, Ginny had chosen a simple design that was modest enough to keep Mum from having kittens while showing off her figure to advantage—a flowing skirt gathered to an unadorned shirred bodice twisted between her breasts and held up by wide straps that met the open back at the waist. She swiveled back and fourth in front of the mirror, admiring the way the fabric draped over her curves and swished about her legs, making her feel sexy, confident, attractive. Of course the only person she really wanted to attract had, thus far, shown no interest, but this dress might…

Ginny viciously cut that thought off. She had to stop wishing for things that weren’t going to happen! He’d made it crystal clear that he wasn’t interested in even friendship, much less anything more. He only wanted her to _act_ like they were friends. For Ron and Hermione.

Making sure her face revealed nothing of her thoughts, Ginny stepped from behind the curtain and took her place on the second stool Madam Malkin had set out, listening with one ear to the chatter about the wedding while she mulled over the encounter with Harry.  

He’d left her no room for argument. If not for Hermione coming to her rescue that last term at school, Ginny was certain she’d be strapped to a bed in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s right now. She’d do anything for Hermione. The hard part would be convincing Hermione that she was suddenly happy being “just friends” with Harry. Hermione had known for certain about Ginny’s feelings for Harry since fourth year and she hadn’t had to probe very hard last week to get Ginny to admit that her feelings hadn’t changed. How was she possibly going to make a sudden change of heart believable? Of course, the Harry she used to know wouldn’t have been able to pull off such an act either, but something told her this “new and improved” version wouldn’t have the least bit of trouble. Perhaps that was the answer.

Ginny left off her musings as Madam Malkin descended upon her when Hermione headed off to the changing area. The final adjustments on Ginny’s dress took much less time than for Hermione’s, so they were both back into their street clothes at about the same time.

“Got a minute for some tea?” Hermione asked as they emerged onto Diagon Alley.

A camera flashed off to the side and a young boy rushed up with parchment and quill extended to Ginny. She scribbled her name and handed it back with a smile before grabbing Hermione’s arm and hurrying them down the street. “Yes, but let’s go to my flat. I’m not in the mood for dealing with our adoring public right now.”

Hermione laughed. “I think they adore you more than me.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. Hang on. I’m going to Apparate us in.”

They had hardly gained their footing in Ginny’s sitting room before Hermione got started. “So, tell me about Harry’s visit.”

Ginny used the task of heating the kettle and gathering the cups and spoons to give herself time to collect her thoughts and school her face. “He was waiting for me after practice,” she said over her shoulder as Hermione settled at the table. “He had some sort of shield up to the keep the press and the fans away. I need to get him to show me that one.”

“Confundus Shield,” Hermione said. “Ron said they teach that one in Auror training.”

“Looks bloody useful,” Ginny said, setting the sugar and milk on the tray and flicking her wand to levitate it all to the table. She kept her eyes on her mug, paying careful attention to spooning sugar and pouring milk as she spoke in a quiet voice. “He’s different.”

Hermione’s spoon paused for a split second, then continued its rotation in her cup as she frowned at it. “Yes. He is.”

“I think…” Ginny glanced up quickly into Hermione’s piercing stare then turned her eyes back on her cup. “I think that’s why I was so upset the other night. More at myself than at him. I don’t think I really believed he’d be any different. And when I realized that he was…” Ginny lifted her eyes to give Hermione a searching look. “But he’s not the person I… he’s not that person anymore, is he?”

Hermione’s frown deepened. She pressed her lips together and propped her chin in her hand with a sigh. “Yes and no. I think the old Harry is still in there somewhere, but… I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. On the surface, he seems fine, but there’s something… I don’t know… distant about him.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Ginny said, surprised that she and Hermione had made the same observation, but eager to encourage the line of thought. “It’s something about his eyes.”

“Yes, I noticed that, too.” Hermione looked off into the distance; Ginny recognized her puzzle-solving face. After a moment she came back from wherever she’d been and took a sip of tea. “Yesterday after they went to get fitted for their wedding clothes, Ron took him for a couple of pints and got him to talk a bit about what he’s been doing. I think he’s seen some pretty horrible things in the past couple of years.”

“Even worse than the war?”

Hermione nodded. “A lot of stuff involving children. That really gets to Harry, you know? He’s got such a soft spot for kids. I think Dolohov may be more of an animal than Greyback was.”

Ginny gave an involuntary shudder. “No wonder he’s changed.”

“So…” Hermione gave her a cautious, questioning look. “How are _you_ doing? I tried to catch you by Floo yesterday, but you weren’t home.”

“I went to the children’s home. Then George met me at the door when I got home and when he left, I shut everything down. I just needed some time to think.” Ginny drew a steadying breath. The moment of deceit was here—she simply had to make Hermione believe. “I’m fine… I guess. I think I’ve finally let go of the hope that things with Harry could go back to the way they were. I’ve been telling myself all along that I should be grateful if he even wants to be friends, so how could I not say yes when he offered that today?”

Ginny held her breath while Hermione’s eyes burned a hole into her soul. “So, you’re okay? With just being friends?”

Ginny forced a wry smile. “Do I have a choice? I’d much rather be friends than push him away again because I want more than he’s willing to give. It’s my fault things ended up like this anyway. Besides, he’s leaving again after the wedding. I’d be stupid to hope for more.”

Ginny struggled to hold her gaze steady as Hermione studied her for another moment before nodding in acceptance and taking another sip of tea. “So what happened with George? Angelina almost had to stun him to keep him from going after Harry the other night when you left.”

With a snort, Ginny got up to place her cup in the sink, not wanting to endure too much of Hermione’s scrutiny. “I told George he just needs to butt out. It’s none of his business and I don’t need to be protected like a sick little girl anymore.”

“He means well—”

“I know!” The words came out more harshly than Ginny intended. She bit down on her tongue and settled back into her chair, taking Hermione’s hand across the table. “I know he does. I know all of you do.” Hermione’s cheeks pinked a bit and she dropped her eyes at Ginny’s meaningful stare. “And I appreciate it. Really I do. But I’m all better now. I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself. Please, please just let me.”

Hermione smiled. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. We all need to back off and let you and Harry work it out for yourselves, no matter how much we want to take care of you. I’ll get Ron to talk to George, too. I don’t think George has a clue that Harry could defend himself without lifting a wand or saying a word.”

A thrill of desire fluttered through Ginny’s stomach at the thought of Harry’s power. “I’d forgotten he can do wandless magic.”

Hermione stood and placed her cup in the sink. “Yes, well, he doesn’t want it widely known, but he probably wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he were attacked. And I don’t think he’d _intentionally_ hurt George, but Harry has changed enough that I don’t think we should test that theory either.” She gave Ginny a hug. “I’d better run. The Minister’s party is in an hour and a half and I need to be sure Ron doesn’t plan on wearing his ragged jeans and old trainers.”

Ginny sat and stared at the empty fireplace long after the green flames had died away, wondering if she’d really convinced Hermione. Sometimes Hermione kept her thoughts to herself until she’d worked things out in her head, and even then, she often just watched to see how things would play out. Ginny shook herself back to life. If she didn’t get moving, she’d be late—well, later than she planned on—and tonight she had to look perfect to play her part. This was going to be the most important performance of her life. 


	38. Let the Games Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretending to be friends is harder than it sounds.

The Shacklebolts’ house was surprisingly modest for the home of Wizarding Britain’s head of state. Harry wasn’t sure what he expected—maybe something along the lines of a slightly smaller Malfoy Manor—but certainly not this quaint Tudor no bigger than his own home. Although, size was the only comparison between the two houses. This home, with its open floor plan filled with soothing colors and comfortably worn furniture, had a cozy, welcoming feel that Grimmauld Place could never hope to offer—at least not without extensive magical renovations. He especially liked the Shacklebolts’ sitting room with its sparkling glass doors that opened onto an expansive stone terrace and amazing garden that would be described as magical even if it really weren’t. Harry wondered briefly if he could create something similar at Grimmauld Place, then snorted at himself in disgust. What would be the point? He wouldn’t be around to enjoy it.

Harry had timed his arrival so that the Minister and his wife had only a moment to greet him before moving on to the next person popping into the Apparition point—less chance of being cornered that way. As he began his obligatory circuit of the gathering, he noted the odd mix of guests dressed in their finest attire: Ministry department heads, Aurors ranging from officers to trainees, Magical Law Enforcement directors and staff, various Diagon Alley entrepreneurs, Quidditch players and coaches, and assorted Hogwarts professors and alumni, along with many people he didn’t recognize. The cream of Wizarding Britain had turned out in force to honor Ron and Hermione… as well they should.

The Shacklebolts had offered to host this reception—as a private party, not a state event—for those of the wizarding world who hadn’t been invited to attend the wedding, which was meant to be an intimate affair for mainly family and extremely close friends. Looking at the size of this gathering, Harry decided Hermione had been right to stand her ground on that point. He’d heard that, at last count, the wedding guest list still included more than a hundred people, in spite of her admonitions to their mothers. If all of these people had been invited, too, maintaining the Statute of Secrecy would have been impossible and they’d have had to hold it in a Quidditch stadium.

Harry maneuvered his way smoothly through the crowd, making boring small talk with appropriate Ministry officials, catching up with Hagrid, who was finally back from the Continent, sidestepping the gawking, flirty Auror trainees from Ron’s class, and deftly avoiding Robards, who was eyeing him too closely for comfort.

Social obligation done, Harry sank gratefully into the shadows on the terrace and assumed a practiced air of aloofness that he knew from experience would discourage anyone from approaching unless they knew him well. His strategic position, chosen instinctively before he remembered he wasn’t in any real danger, allowed him to watch the glittering crowd both inside and out. He pretended to sip from the flute of wine offered by a nattily dressed house elf (free and wage-earning, of course) and automatically scanned for red hair. The Weasleys and their respective spouses or dates were mostly accounted for—even Charlie who, Ron said, had arrived from Romania Monday evening with the gorgeous brunette dragon preserve mediwitch in tow, much to Mrs. Weasley’s delight.

The only one of the clan missing was Ginny.

Harry kept his face carefully blank as his eyes roamed the gathering again. No, he hadn’t overlooked her; she wasn’t here. With a flash of guilt, he ran their meeting at the pitch through his head again. He knew he hadn’t played fair by catching her off-guard in such a public setting, but it was the only way he’d been able to devise to gain her cooperation without giving himself away. She hadn’t been pleased—he hadn’t expected her to be—but she’d agreed to play along. So why wasn’t she here? Had something happened? Harry’s eyes snapped to Ron and Hermione chatting amiably with her new boss in the DMLE. Ginny had said she was joining Hermione for a fitting after leaving the pitch—if she’d missed the appointment or changed her mind about their agreement to act like friends, Hermione wouldn’t look so happy… would she?

Mrs. Weasley seemed to be the only other person who had noticed Ginny’s absence. Harry glanced at his watch. She was nearly an hour late and he was beginning to worry. Just as he’d decided to go and ask Hermione if she knew anything, a flash of red at the terrace door caught his eye.

All of Harry’s blood rushed south and his brain had time to process only two thoughts before it ceased to function: _she’s alone… that dress really should be illegal_.

Harry refused to examine how ridiculously relieved he was about the first thought and concentrated, instead, on keeping his feet from taking him straight to her. He’d already taken one involuntary step forward and forced himself to stop, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move back into the darkness. Of course, his movement had caught Ginny’s eye and she smiled brightly as she walked—no, prowled—toward him.

He swallowed hard as he watched her approach, thinking randomly that she reminded him of a medieval princess from the cover of one of Aunt Petunia’s romance novels. Sod Molly Weasley’s moaning about gingers not being able to wear red—Ginny _owned_ the color. Especially this deep shade of blood that drew out the dark auburn in the tumble of curls gathered loosely at her crown and set off the softly freckled cream of her bare neck and shoulders above the wide neckline that cascaded into a flowing cape down her back. The soft fabric of the skirt, embellished only with a chain of gold slung low about her hips, caressed her curves and swished seductively around her ankles as she walked. But it was the stiff panels laced tightly around her torso that had him fighting the urge to jump to the rescue and free the pale mounds trying to escape over the top of their restraint.

“Hi, Harry.” Her voice was warm and pitched low, jarring loose too many buried memories and freezing the part of his brain required for speech. He kept his face blank with a struggle. “Smile,” she whispered. “Everyone’s watching, you know. We want them to think we’re friends, don’t we?”

His lips turned up automatically, then froze as she lifted the glass from his hand and took a sip of his wine as she looked around. “Nice place, isn’t it?” She handed the glass back and smiled up at him, her eyes wide and innocent. “I guess I should make the rounds, then. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Harry watched her descend the steps onto the lawn and belatedly responded, “Sure.”

One anguished moment later, he backed deep into the shadows and slumped against the side of the house behind a potted flutterby bush, the heel of his hand pressing against his groin, willing the pressure to go away and thanking Merlin he’d opted for formal robes instead of a Muggle suit. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp—and so what if he turned the glass around so his lips rested where hers had? No one was around to see.

 _God_ , he was pathetic! He’d _dealt_ with this. _Two days_ —he’d taken two full days to regain control of his emotions. He’d been just _fine_ when he’d seen her at the pitch. And inside of a minute, she’d destroyed all of his defenses without even trying. _Pathetic!_

_You’re better than this, Potter. You’ve faced worse. Much worse. Pull your head out of your arse and do your job!_

Harry stayed in the darkness for several moments more, breathing deeply to regain his composure and fix his mask firmly back in place. Stepping out into the lesser shadows where he could see the party again, he set the wine flute on a passing tray of empties before he could give in to the temptation to shrink and pocket it as a memento. He knew he should move into the crowd, find someone to talk to, seek a distraction. But his feet and eyes had ideas of their own—the first refusing to move as if they’d become part of the terrace stone and the other zooming in on Ginny with unerring accuracy as if they were the spawn of Moody’s mad eye.

Green flames flared in Harry’s gut at the way she gazed warmly up at Oliver Wood, her hand resting lightly on his bicep as she told a tale that was apparently hilarious, from the way Wood, George, and Angelina were whooping with laughter.

Before he could stop himself, Harry ran a finger around the edge of his ear and covertly pointed his other finger toward the group as he whispered, “ _Incumbo._ ” The effect was the same as Apparating right next to them in his Invisibility Cloak. When Ginny dropped her hand from Wood’s arm, the fire in Harry’s gut settled into glowing coals and he snagged another flute of wine from a passing elf to use as a prop while he eavesdropped.

“…plans for the charity match?” Wood asked.

“Rubbish. Utter rubbish,” George growled. “That pompous ass is holding everything up. Every bloody day we have to wait for him to decide if he’ll deign to honor it with the oh-so-precious Potter name we’re losing ticket sales.”

“George…” Angelina warned as Ginny pleaded, “George, you promised…”

“What? It’s only the truth. I say we go back to Plan A and name it the Weasley House. We’re the ones doing all the bloody work anyway.”

Harry cringed. After talking with Ron yesterday, he’d decided to let them go ahead with their plans—it would do so much good for the children and he wouldn’t be around for it to matter anyway—but he just hadn’t got round to telling them yet. He made a mental note to let Fleur know first thing tomorrow.

“Do you reckon he’d play for my team?” Wood asked and took a swipe at Ginny when she gave him a cheeky grin. “ _Quidditch_ team, you barmy bint.” Wood was captaining the celebrity team opposing the Harpies in the charity match.

George snorted. “Not bloody likely. He’s got more important things to do, don’t you know? Savior of the world and all that rot. No rest for the wicked.”

He grunted when Angelina poked him. “I think you’ve had enough,” she said under her breath, then turned back to Wood. “Harry’s supposed to leave again after the wedding, but he might be interested if he were going to be around. You should ask him. Maybe he can arrange to come back.”

Wood nodded thoughtfully. “That I might. Wouldn’t that draw in the crowds? Harry Potter playing Seeker again.”

It was Harry’s turn to snort. _Not in this lifetime, Wood._

“Who else have you—”

“Hello, Harry.”

With a start, Harry flicked his finger to end the spell and quickly flashed a smile at the blonde who stepped into his line of sight. He was slipping; no one should ever be able to sneak up on him like that.

“Hi, Luna. Good to see you again. How are you this evening?”

“Oh, I’m fine. The Wrackspurts are particularly fierce this evening, however. I do hope you’re remembering to shake them loose regularly.” With a smile, Harry hummed in what _could_ be interpreted as agreement and raised his glass to his lips. She cocked her head to one side and studied him for a moment. “Did you become a vampire while you were away?”

Harry inhaled the sip of wine he’d intended to vanish. As he sputtered and gasped for breath, he wondered if she was taking the mickey, but then remembered who he was talking to. “No,” he croaked through the end of his choking fit. “At least not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

“You seem to spend all of your time standing in the shadows. I thought perhaps the light didn’t agree with you.” She cocked her head in the other direction, studying him as if he were some interesting new species of Blibbering Humdinger. Her unblinking scrutiny became unnerving before she finally spoke. “You shouldn’t be frightened, Harry.”

Harry gave a short bark of laughter. “Frightened? I’m not frightened. I’ve never been less frightened in my life.” Creeped out maybe, but not frightened. Absolutely _not_ frightened.

“Mmmm. I suppose,” she said in her dreamiest voice. “Although, living _is_ sometimes scarier than dying, isn’t it? But hiding only makes it worse, you know.”

Harry opened his mouth to object, but she smiled and glided away as Minister Shacklebolt stepped up and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Ah, Harry. There you are. We’ve been looking for you.”

With an inward grimace, Harry quickly pasted on his best fake smile. When he saw Robards and another man joining their group, Harry kicked himself for allowing Luna and Ginny to distract him enough not to see this ambush coming. His job was so much easier when he didn’t have to deal with people who affected his emotions.

“Harry, I don’t believe you’ve met the French Ambassador, yet. Allow me to introduce Alexandre Vallière.”

Harry gave a small bow before extending his hand. “Ambassador. A pleasure to meet you.”

“No, no, the pleasure is mine. I 'ave 'eard of your excellent work and 'ope to entice you to extend your assistance to my country.”

Before Harry could form his polite refusal, Shacklebolt interrupted in a low voice. “He’s talking about Dolohov, Harry. They’ve got evidence that he may have made it as far west as—”

“Kinglsey?”

Briefly closing his eyes and sighing, the Minister turned to smile at his wife. “Yes, love?”

She was smiling with every part of her face but her eyes. “Remember our agreement?” she cooed sweetly with an undertone that threatened emasculation. “No Ministry business tonight. This is a social gathering, not a state reception. I think it’s time to invite our guests in for supper, don’t you agree?” She looped a hand into the crook of his elbow and looked up at him expectantly.

“Yes, dear.” Shacklebolt turned with a regretful look back toward the three men; his eyes told Harry and Robards that smirking was a punishable offense. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I’m afraid we must postpone this discussion for a more appropriate time. Ambassador, when are you next available to meet?”

“I am afraid I must return to Paris tomorrow morning, but I will be back on Monday next. Perhaps we could meet in your office at, say, two o’clock?”

“Two o’clock on Monday it is, then,” Shacklebolt said and turned to Harry and Robards. “Please make arrangements to be there.”

“But, sir,” Harry spoke up, working hard not to let his desperation show. “Our Portkey back to Poland is set for half eight on Monday morning.”

“This is important, Harry. We need you at this meeting. Robards, see about rescheduling that Portkey, would you? Best make it for the following week at the earliest.” The look that passed between Robards and Shacklebolt sent a jolt of panic to Harry’s gut. With a final glance that cut off further argument, the Minister smiled down at his wife, his adoration evident in his eyes, and then at the Ambassador. “Alexandre, would you join us?”

As they strolled away, Harry turned his appeal to Robards, careful to keep the frustration from his voice. “We won’t need to stay a whole week, will we? Can’t you do something? We’ll already have lost several good leads this week and no telling what damage Dolohov—”

“Shut it, Potter,” Robards growled. “You heard the Minister. This is connected to your case. Just be there.”

Robards stomped into the house, leaving Harry with a head full of unanswered questions and protests and a growing knot in his stomach. Another week. They had just manipulated him into staying another week and, given half a chance, they’d probably work out a way to keep him here even longer. He had to find a way to escape.

As his eyes drifted out over the crowd, the knot in his stomach yanked viciously. Ginny accepted Wood’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her inside with the rest of the guests. Harry couldn’t stop the low growl in the back of his throat.

“So that explains all that moaning in your sleep, yeah?” a familiar voice breathed in his ear. “I can’t believe you’re going to just stand there and let him walk off with your woman.”

“She’s not my woman, Summers,” Harry murmured. “She’s free to walk off with anyone she likes.” He was proud of himself for keeping his voice neutral, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from following Ginny into the house.

“I always knew you were mental, but to let a walking wet dream like that get away… especially when it’s perfectly obvious that you want her as much she wants y—”

“Why are you even here?” Harry said tersely, finally turning around with a scowl.

Summers gave him a cheeky grin. “Security detail. How else would I get to mingle with the pretty people?”

Harry’s scowl deepened. “Sor—”

“If you say sorry, I’ll deck you. I volunteered.” The grin grew cheekier. “Besides, you know I couldn’t go a whole week without playing body guard for my favorite hero. The withdrawal was killing me.”

Harry flipped two fingers at him, then grew serious. “Did you hear what the Minister said? Can you—”

“Already on it.” Summers’ grin disappeared and he was all business. “Seems a little village in the French Alps, on the border of Switzerland, has just up and disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Harry grimaced. “That’s got Dolohov written all over it. You reckon he can make his bases Unplottable now?”

“Or it could be a Fidelius or some new cloaking enchantment he’s come up with. Either way, it’s going to make our job that much harder. The meeting on Monday might be worth sticking around for after all.” Summers nodded toward the doorway where the last of the guests were filing in. “You’d better get in there. They probably won’t start without you.”

With a growl of frustration, Harry nodded. “You’ll keep me posted, yeah?”

At Summers’s jaunty salute, Harry turned and made his way reluctantly inside. He’d much rather be investigating Dolohov’s latest move than making small talk with some purple-hair dowager. Didn’t these people know what was happening out there? Didn’t they know that none of this would mean anything if Dolohov were allowed to rise to power because people weren’t paying attention… the way Voldemort had?

Harry’s world clicked back into focus. They weren’t paying attention because they knew someone else _was_ —someone who had accepted the call to keep them safe. No matter how hard he wished his life could be different, no matter how much his hormones tried to interfere, Harry knew that _this_ was his purpose in life—keeping the Voldemorts and the Dolohovs of the world under control so children like Teddy and Henry and Natalia could grow up without fear, so people like Ron and Hermione could get married and find their happily-ever-afters, and so people like Ginny could play Quidditch and laugh at jokes told by handsome men who weren’t stupid speccy gits with a “saving people thing.”

And if he could keep from getting distracted, he might just make it through the next two weeks.

***

Ginny watched the city lights flash past the dark window of the limousine and tried to mask her irritation. Sometimes her family was dead annoying. She had tried to at least look like she was joining in the excited chatter, but she’d given up after only a few minutes. What she really wanted to do was scream in frustration and Bat Bogey Hex Harry bloody Potter until he finally had to look _at_ her, not _through_ her.

For one brief moment last night, she’d finally got through that façade of cool indifference. He’d actually _seen_ her last night, and he’d liked what he’d seen… a lot. At least according to his blown pupils and lack of coherent language. That wasn’t the reaction of someone who just wanted to be friends. Or _pretend_ to be friends. No matter what he said, he wanted her. She _knew_ she wasn’t mistaken.

But somehow between then and now, he’d got distracted.

Maybe she’d taken the act with Wood a bit too far? She’d tried to be careful, dance close to the line between friendliness and flirtiness—Wood had seemed to understand that it was all in good fun… had even seemed to realize what she was doing and play along. But by the end of the evening, Harry had stopped watching her and, after talking with those Aurors on the security detail, the ones Hermione had told her were his partners, he’d disappeared.

And now, his mask was more firmly in place than ever.

With Apparating or Flooing out of the question for a Muggle event, the Weasleys had gathered at Grimmauld Place to ride together to Hermione’s parents’s house in a Muggle limousine that Harry had secured for the evening. The car was impressive, surprisingly as large and luxurious inside as any magical vehicle she’d ridden in, but strangely enormous on the outside as well—she wasn’t quite sure how they would get it around street corners without magic to keep them from taking out every lamppost and bin along the way. As everyone piled in, Ginny had hung back, determined to secure a seat next to Harry. But somehow he’d managed to situate himself between Mum and Percy and was now in a deep philosophical discussion with Charlie and his girlfriend—Agnes or Agatha or something—about the merits of various Romanian beers. Not exactly a conversation Ginny could intelligently contribute to, so she steamed in silence.

Harry had been polite enough when they’d all Flooed into his sitting room, but aside from his initial greeting, he’d hardly looked at her. And she was worth looking at tonight; her legs, toned to perfection from hours of broom-gripping each day, were showcased perfectly by the Oscar de la Renta black beaded mini dress she’d bought almost a year ago, but never worn, and a new pair of strappy red Jimmy Choo stilettos. Mum’d had kittens, of course, but by the time she’d seen the ensemble, Ginny’d had no time to go back and change—not that she would have anyway. Harry’s week home was half over and she hadn’t even had a proper conversation with him yet. She’d finally caught his attention last night and, by Merlin, she was going to do it again, even if she had to walk down the aisle starkers. 

The car glided to a stop in a quiet tree-lined neighborhood. When the driver opened the door, Harry stepped out first and dismissed him before turning to help each of the ladies out himself. Ginny waited until everyone else had got out before crouching her way to the door and slipping her damp hand into Harry’s dry calloused palm. He steadied her carefully as she stepped onto the pavement and, once she’d gained her footing, casually moved his hand to her elbow to guide her into the house—a perfect gentleman. Anyone watching might have thought they were at the very least good friends if not dating. Ginny threw a questioning glance at him.

“You look very nice tonight,” he said, a benign smile on his face.

Well, okay, maybe he _had_ noticed, but she wanted him to _react_. Ginny chewed her bottom lip, considering this new development, before remembering she should respond. “Oh, erm, thanks. You clean up all right, too.” The flush that rose on her face, matched the shade of her shoes. _Brilliant, Weasley! Become a master of the understatement, have you? What happened to the witty repartee you had last night?_ She sneaked a peek at him through her lowered lashes. His charcoal suit had to have been tailored magically to so perfectly fit the narrow inverted triangle of his frame, and his black silk shirt and tie completed the neutral palette that made his eyes shine like jewels. When had he developed a sense of style? He looked positively edible.

Before Ginny could think of anything more to say that would make her sound less like a blithering idiot, Hermione met them at the door, wringing her hands and clearly distraught. The only other time Ginny had ever seen Hermione this upset was before exams.

“In here,” Hermione said, pulling them into what appeared to be a small study off the entry hall. The hand-wringing intensified after she’d closed the door and turned a worried, pleading look at Harry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She did it before I had a chance to stop her and now we’re going to have to go along and I know how you hate this and—”

“Hermione!” Harry said gently, grabbing her hands. “Slow down. Tell me what’s happened.”

She stopped and drew a couple of steadying breaths. “Mum. She, well, these are all of their neighbors and friends from uni and business associates and someone asked why we had the security and, well, she panicked and said that you’re the grandson of the rich recluse that runs the company I work for, and I just can’t believe she did that when we already had the cover worked out that Ron and I met you at boarding school and that you and he are in law enforcement, which is really the truth, of course, but—”

“Hermione, calm down,” Harry said, rubbing his hands soothingly up and down her arms. “It’s fine. We can play it that way. Don’t worry about it. Have you let the rest of the family know?”

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief. “Ron’s putting the word around. I’ve asked Bill and Fleur to stay close to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Charlie’s keeping an eye on Percy. They’ll have the hardest time, I think.”

“Good. Who’s on security?”

“Summers, Ingalls, Johnson, and Biggerstaff.”

“Okay, they can all handle Obliviation if needed, but we’ll try to keep it to a minimum. Which guests will be the hardest to manage?”

Ginny watched in awe as Harry quietly took charge of the situation and calmed Hermione’s nerves with his quick and insightful questions and confident assurances that the situation was in hand. This was the Harry who had faced Voldemort, only more so. Much more so. Ginny felt a tingle of need low in her belly and gripped her hands together to keep them from reaching for him.

“You’ll be okay?”

Ginny realized with a start that Harry and Hermione were looking at her, waiting for an answer. “Oh, yes. Fine. I’ll be fine. Shop clerk. Piece of cake.”

They’d come up with various background stories for each of the Weasleys that would mesh with the Muggle world—Hermione worked for a corporation doing top secret research, Bill worked in bank security, Percy and Dad were government clerks, Mum and Fleur were stay-at-home mothers, Charlie worked in a wildlife preserve, and so forth. Ginny had ended up “working in George’s toy shop in Scotland” because Quidditch was too far removed from the Muggle world and Ginny didn’t know enough about football to fake her way through if she encountered a big fan.

Hermione threw herself into Harry’s arms and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Harry, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ginny had to look away. She knew that Harry considered Hermione his sister, but that didn’t stop the stab of jealousy at the obvious love they shared.

Harry gave Hermione a squeeze then pulled back, his arms still around her waist. “All right, then. Let’s go pretend I’m an entitled snob.”

Hermione’s giggle was only slightly hysterical. “You can channel your inner Malfoy.”

Harry snorted. “I couldn’t even _pretend_ to be that obnoxious. Well, come along.” He held out both elbows. “The heir to an outrageous fortune should make an entrance with a gorgeous woman on each arm, don’t you think?”

Ginny’s heart flipped as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and Hermione winked at her behind his back. That was twice in the space of ten minutes that he’d commented on her looks. Perhaps this evening held some promise, after all.

As they crossed the threshold from the house into the garden, Ginny _felt_ Harry slip into his role—his posture shifted slightly, his gait smoothed into catlike grace, he assumed an air that quietly proclaimed a life of affluence and heritage… all of which _did_ remind her a bit of Malfoy. Startled at the sudden change, Ginny stumbled; Harry steadied her quickly, a look of concern on his face.

“All right?” he asked.

She flushed, disoriented by the unexpected poshness of his accent. “Yes. Fine. Thanks.” Was she forever going to babble incoherently in his presence?

He smiled and placed his hand over hers on his arm as Hermione led them into the giant marquee that covered most of the garden—no magically enlarged dining rooms tonight. Ginny gazed in wonder at the way the tent still had an enchanted feel to it, draped in gauzy fabric and strung with blue and white balloons and tiny lights that cast a soft glow over the scene. The front half of the tent held a maze of round tables decked with blue cloths and arrangements of white roses on towering pedestals circled at the base with candles. The overburdened buffet table along the right side of the space and the busy bar on the left were tended by white-coated human servers. At the far end, a jazz trio played on a low platform before a small dance floor.

The Grangers had never held an engagement party for Hermione and Ron, so this party served a dual purpose, giving friends and associates who weren’t invited to the wedding a way to celebrate the occasion and meet her new family. But the gathering was much smaller than the one the previous night and, given the ratio of wizards to Muggles, Ginny thought they’d be very lucky if they made it through the evening without a mass Obliviation. That fear was confirmed by Hermione’s nervousness as she led Harry and Ginny into the crowd, introducing them along the way.

Ginny was amazed at the smoothness with which Harry carried off his performance, easily deflecting questions and allowing people to draw their own conclusions from vague almost-truths. But even more surprising was his easy manner toward _her_. He had seemed in no hurry to release her hand and had done so only when he snagged a couple of glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed one to her. But even then he’d remained by her side, drawing her into conversation and guiding her through the crowd with a gentle touch to her back, almost as if they really were a couple. Of course, he did the same for Hermione when she flitted into their group of the moment, but still… Ginny wasn’t quite sure what to make of his behavior. How much of it was real and how much part of his act? And how was she supposed to respond? Was this what he’d meant when he’d asked her to pretend that they were friends—the charade they would keep up until the wedding was over?

Ginny’s head spun with the questions, leaving her feeling as if she’d been riding a jinxed broom. She’d finally decided to relax and at least pretend it was real for the evening.

And then everything came crashing down.

“Well, would you look at our Hermione?” The sickly-sweet sing-song greeting sent a fleeting grimace across Hermione’s face before she plastered on a stiff smile for the short buxom blonde and statuesque brunette who had walked up.

“Ella! Linley! How good to see you.” Hermione’s false enthusiasm was as apparent to the two girls as it was to Ginny, but they both just smirked.

“My, my, love. Boarding school certainly was good to you,” said the dark-haired girl who was eyeing Harry and Ron instead of Hermione. The girl’s sleek hair fell from an off-center part to her shoulders while a wispy fringe tangled in the thick lashes framing her huge dark eyes. She was runway-model thin and, in her slim heels, almost as tall as Harry. The other girl had short, spiky, blue-streaked hair combed forward to frame her pixie face and was closer to Ginny’s height but much curvier, with generous cleavage peeking over her strapless sapphire mini dress.

The tall girl finally looked at Hermione. “So, are you going to introduce us to your friends?”

Obviously flustered, Hermione latched quickly onto Ron’s hand. “Oh! Yes, erm… this is my fiancé Ron Weasley and my two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron’s sister Ginny.” Hermione gestured toward the blonde. “Everyone, this is Linley Baxter,” then the brunette, “and Ella Masterson. We sort of grew up together in the neighborhood.”

Ginny wasn’t aware that she’d wound her arm back around Harry’s until she had to let go so he could take each girl’s hand and bend over it with a fleeting brush of his lips.

“Oooh, Hermione. Good show,” Linley cooed. “You got a ginger _and_ a prince—two for the price of one.” Ginny took a minute to work out that she’d tried to make a joke about one of the Muggle royals. Linley giggled, seemingly unaware that everyone else’s strained laughter was more in amusement at her than the joke.

“So, Hermione,” Ella said with a sly glance at Ron and Harry—Ginny _really_ didn’t like this girl. “Where did you decide for uni? Oxford or Cambridge?”

Hermione flushed. “Oh, erm…”

“Hermione completed a very advanced course of study during school,” Harry interjected smoothly. “She was top of our class and she’s already landed a job with a top secret research firm. She’s just too humble to boast about it.” Hermione’s blush deepened as she cast Harry a grateful look.

Ella’s eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. “Oh, yes. I heard that she was working for your… grandfather’s company, isn’t it?” She made a show of concentrated thinking for a moment. “Sorry. I can’t remember the name?”

Hermione smirked, her composure restored. “That’s why it’s called top secret, you know?”

“Oh, you mean you could tell us, but then you’d have to kill us?” Linley quipped.

“No, nothing quite so drastic as that.” Harry’s smile would melt butter. “We’d just have to wipe your memories.”

Everyone except Ginny laughed, but Ella continued to study Harry with narrowed eyes as if she were trying to decide if he were really joking.

“What about you? Where did you end up?” Hermione asked the girls a bit too quickly. Ginny didn’t think it was _too_ obvious that she was trying to change the subject.

Ella shook her hair back and lifted her chin as if in defiance. “Linley’s doing hair and make-up at AOFM—the Academy of Freelance Makeup—and I’m doing fashion design at London Met.”

“Oh, fashion design. How nice.” Hermione did an admirable job of keeping her voice neutral.

Ginny took a sip of her drink to keep from smirking. She wasn’t quite sure what Ella’s defensive posture meant, but she supposed it had something to do with their schools not being quite as good as the ones they had thought Hermione might attend.

“I’ve already got an internship lined up during fashion week in February,” Ella said, her voice taking on an air of superiority as her eyes raked over Ginny’s beaded dress. “Not bad for a de la Renta knock-off, even if it is from last year’s line.”

Seething, Ginny was on the verge of exposing the girl’s inability to recognize a true designer dress, but Hermione’s warning look made her bite down on her tongue and let the insult ride. She’d give anything to Bat-Bogey Ella’s patronizing smirk right off her face.

“What about the rest of you? Where are you studying?” Linley asked.

“Harry and I are training in law enforcement and Ginny works with my brother in his toy shop,” Ron said with a proud smile.

With a dismissive glance at Ginny, Ella focused on Ron and Harry. The “shop clerk” label suddenly made Ginny’s skin crawl. Her fingers itched for her wand as she fought the urge to scream that she was richer and more famous than either of these silly bints could ever dream to be.

“Law enforcement. As in Bobbies?” Ella asked.

“More in the area of intelligence,” Harry answered.

“Ooooh! Spies!” Linley squealed, practically bouncing out of her dress.

Harry smiled enigmatically and sent an amused glance toward Ron over the rim of his glass. Ginny noticed distractedly that Harry’s throat didn’t contract when he took a drink—how did he do that?

“Well now, _that’s_ the most interesting thing I’ve heard all evening.” Ella’s purr jerked Ginny’s attention back to the conversation and she watched with barely concealed fury as the bitch insinuated herself between Harry and Ron, wrapping her arms through theirs and giving Hermione a saccharine smile. “You don’t mind if we borrow your men for a bit, do you, Hermione? We really should get to know them better, you know, make sure they’re good enough for you.”

Ron’s eyes went wide, but Harry gave Hermione a conspiratorial wink and held out an arm for Linley. “Isn’t that why we’re here? To get to know Hermione’s friends?”

After telling Ron with her eyes that he should go along, Hermione steered Ginny in the opposite direction.

“Hermione!” Ginny growled under her breath.

“Shhh! Let it go. They’re not worth it.”

“But—”

“It’s fine. It’s part of the act,” Hermione hissed under her breath. “Just let it go.”

Ginny wanted to argue further, but Mrs. Granger walked up with an elderly couple and the introductions and litany of updates began. After just a few minutes, Ginny had heard enough about children and grandchildren and former neighbors and friends who she would never know. She wiggled her glass in the air to let Hermione know where she was going, excused herself politely, and headed in search of a drink.

She leaned against the end of the bar, watching Harry and Ron laugh with Ella and Linley and seriously wondered if she could get away with a hex.

“What’ll yeh have, love?”

The barman had a smile in his eyes that made Ginny wonder if he knew what she’d been thinking—well, the intent if not the exact thought. She smirked back at him and surveyed the bottles lined up on the shelf. With a sigh, she realized she didn’t have a clue what to order at a Muggle bar. “I don’t know. Something strong,” she finally said with a nonchalant wave and a flirty grin. His answering smirk made Ginny realize that her age might be enough to explain her seeming lack of experience and knowledge.

“Something strong, hmm? How ‘bout a scotch and soda?”

As he brandished the bottle, Ginny could make out the word “whiskey,” but she wasn’t sure what soda was—it didn’t sound good and would probably just dilute the alcohol. “How ‘bout scotch and no soda?”

His eyebrows lifted. “On the rocks?”

Rocks? _Really_? Muggles were strange sometimes. “No, just scotch.”

With a skeptical grin, the barman poured the drink and set it before her. She threw half of it back, and he gave a low whistle, apparently impressed. It didn’t burn as much as firewhiskey, but it did offer the nice warm buzz she was looking for. She watched Harry laugh at something Ella whispered in his ear, then swallowed the rest of her scotch and set the glass back on the bar. “Could I have more, please?”

The barman gave her a speculative look as he poured. “You’re not drivin’ tonight, are yeh, love?”

Ginny snorted. “No, not driving. I’ll be riding home in a big fancy car, thanks to that git over there.” She jerked her chin toward Harry. “I wonder if he’ll be riding home with us.”

The barman's obvious pity made Ginny’s stomach churn. “Well, you should probably eat something, if you haven’t yet,” he said.

Ginny vaguely remembered eating lunch and nothing since, but she didn’t think she could swallow a bite right now. She took another gulp and gave him her sweetest smile. “Thanks, but I’m good.” As she turned to walk away, she ran straight into a solid wall of white shirt, red-striped tie, and black suit coat.

“I’ll bet you are,” said a deep voice just above the wall.

Ginny tilted her head back to see a set of unnaturally white teeth grinning down at her and immediately thought of Gilderoy Lockhart. She let her gaze drift higher to the warm brown eyes at the top of the too-handsome-to-be-real face and her head began to float a bit. “You’ll bet I are what?” she asked.

The man gripped her elbow to steady her. “I’ll bet you’re good.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked as he led her to a deserted table in a dimly lit corner.

Once he had them settled, he turned his brilliant smile back on her. “Because a gorgeous bird like you couldn’t be anything _but_ good.”

Ginny took a cautious sip of her drink, enjoying the warm, fuzzy feeling that was stealing into her brain as she studied the man from beneath lowered lashes. She suspected he was older than she’d first thought—his skin seemed to have been stretched taut as if to pull out the wrinkles. His light brown hair, highlighted with golden streaks that didn’t look natural and styled to downplay the fact that it was thinning, sent the image of Lockhart flashing through her mind again. She couldn’t stop the smile that found its way onto her lips.

“Of course, I’m good,” Ginny finally conceded as she took another drink. “And who might you be?”

He dipped his head to affect a bow and lifted her hand to his lips. “Geoffrey Lockerby, at your service.”

Ginny giggled, suddenly finding the comparison to Lockhart downright funny. “Pleased to make your acq—acq—pleased to meet you, Mr. Lock—Lockerby.”

“Please call me Geoffrey. And you are?”

“Ginny Weasley, star Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.”

He smiled indulgently. “The Holyhead Harpies? Is that a football team?”

“Oops!” Ginny giggled and leaned forward to not-whisper conspiratorially. “I wasn’t s’posed to tell anyone that. Erm, yeah. A football team. That sounds good. But I’m really s’posed to just say that I work in my brother’s shop. And, really, that used to be true, so I guess it’s not really a lie.” Ginny swallowed another mouthful of scotch—it was a nice alternative to firewhiskey, she decided. “And what do you do, Mr. Lockhart…by?”

“Geoffrey, please,” he reminded with a wider smile. “I have a cosmetic dentistry surgery in the building with the Grangers.”

“Ah, cosmetic dentistry,” Ginny said with a knowing nod that made her head slosh a bit. She had no idea what cosmetic dentistry was, but it must have something to do with teeth. Maybe that’s why his were so blindingly bright.

“Yes,” he said, his smile never wavering. “Porcelain veneers are my speciality.”

Porcelain veneers. That sounded like it had nothing to do with teeth. A sink or a bathtub or maybe a cauldron, but not teeth. Muggles were strange. Ginny drained her glass and stared at the bottom of it. “I like scotch,” she said wistfully. “It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.”

“Would you like another?”

Ginny’s eyes shot to his and a smile spread over her face. “What a wonderful idea!” She moved to stand and he put a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place.

“I’ll get it. You just wait here.”

Ginny watched him make his way to the bar, her eyes stopping at the dance floor where Harry was laughing down at Ella as she clung to his neck with both arms while they swayed in time to the music.

“Here we are,” Geoffrey said, setting a glass down in front of Ginny.

Suddenly the air in the tent seemed to disappear and Ginny struggled for breath. “I... I need some air.” She pushed herself up from the table, but couldn’t take her eyes from Harry and Ella as she fought the wave of dizziness that washed over her. “I need to get out of here,” she mumbled and stumbled toward the exit.

Geoffrey’s arm was around her waist in an instant. “Let me help,” he murmured in her ear.

He was too close, holding her too tightly, but she could only think about getting out. She didn’t realize where he was leading her until he settled her on the sofa in the study where Hermione had brought them when they’d first come in. But the air in here was cooler and she could breathe, so she just bent over her knees and dragged in deep breaths until her head stopped spinning. She heard a click at the door, but didn’t recognize it as a lock until Geoffrey returned to sit too close to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She stiffened and slid down the sofa a bit. After all, she didn’t want to be rude—the man was trying to help… wasn’t he?

“He’s not worth it, love.” His voice was meant to be soothing, but it sent a chill through Ginny. “At the very least, you should pay him back in kind.” He closed the space between them, tightening his arm around her and placing a hand on her knee.

Okay, this was getting creepy. Not that she was worried about things getting out of hand—she’d had to fend off plenty of over-eager admirers in the pub during post-game celebrations. But she really didn’t want to cause a scene with Muggle self-defense techniques and hexing him was out of the question. Ginny slid a bit further away. “No, I...” She couldn’t remember what she was objecting to as Geoffrey moved closer, bumping her against the arm of the sofa. “Erm. Really, I’m fine. I’ll just—”

The door crashed in. Harry stood in the opening, practically breathing fire. Ginny scrambled to her feet as he pointed at Geoffrey, giving him a glare that would’ve melted stone. “You should go back to your wife.”

In an instant, Geoffrey’s eyes glazed over and he meekly turned and walked from the room. His wife. Ginny hadn’t even noticed a ring. How did Harry know these things?

Torn between overwhelming relief, supreme embarrassment, and raging fury, she wondered briefly where Ella was and chose to latch onto the anger. “Wandless magic, Harry? Really? Do _any_ of the rules _ever_ apply to you?”

Harry looked furious and completely unapologetic as he repaired the door and pushed it closed. “It was the easiest way to get rid of him without a scene. He’s lucky I kept it to a Confundus.” The fire in his eyes banked and shifted into concern. “Are you okay?”

The events of the last few moments hit her and she sank back to the sofa, shame overcoming her anger as her head swam. “Yes, I’m fine,” she mumbled, her trembling hand over her mouth, and peeked at him from behind the curtain of her hair. “Thanks,” she added in a small voice.

He hadn’t moved any closer and was standing very still as he watched her closely. “No problem,” he said, his voice carrying the same nonchalance as his stance. “It’s what friends do… look out for each other.” But his casual words belied the look in his eyes—the same look she’d seen last night that she now thought could best be described as hunger.

With the scotch still roaring through her veins, filling her with courage that would make Godric Gryffindor proud, she decided to face this challenge head-on and stood, swaying only a bit as she took a step toward him. “Harry, I don’t want to be _friends_ with you.”

The shutters dropped on his eyes and he took a step back. “I know.” His voice was calm, persuasive. “I know and it’s okay. We just need to pretend until Sunday. For Ron and Hermione.”

Ginny wanted to scream. Was he deliberately misinterpreting her or was he really that daft? Shoving away all lingering doubts, she stepped close enough to back him against the door and wound her arms around his neck. “Harry, please. I know you’re in there. I know you want me. Please, don’t shut me out.” He didn’t respond, but he didn’t resist, either. She chose to take that as encouragement and pushed up on her toes to kiss his lips.

He turned his head at the last second and her mouth landed on his jaw, but she didn’t let that deter her as she nibbled down the side of his neck. The reaction he couldn’t hide was hard against her hip and she pressed herself closer, determined to make him acknowledge his desire.

The Sobriety Charm hit her without warning. She barely had time to grab the bin Harry evidently summoned from under the desk before she sank to the floor and retched violently into it. He knelt beside her, holding back her hair and, when she was done, offering a glass of water he’d apparently conjured. Mortified, she pushed him away and wiped a shaky hand over her sweaty face. That spell might instantly erase the effect of too much alcohol, but it left behind all of the “morning-after” results—most people preferred a good night’s sleep and a strong hangover potion.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled as he Vanished the mess in the bin and held the glass toward her again. “Drink. It’ll help.”

Ginny turned away, leaning her head against the desk and closing her eyes in despair. “Just go,” she said, her voice raw and quiet.

He didn’t move for what seemed an eternity, but Ginny held her breath and refused to look at him. He finally set the glass of water next to her and left the room with a gentle click of the door closing behind him. The air rushed from her lungs and she gasped raggedly, working madly to control her emotions. Merlin, what had she done? How many different kinds of fool could she possibly make of herself before the evening was through?

 _But he noticed that you’d left_ , her internal optimist encouraged, _and he came to rescue you._

 _Yeah, but he’s Harry Potter,_ her pessimist chided. _That’s what he does. He’d have done it for anyone._

 _But he was hard for you,_ said the optimist.

 _Maybe that was just Ella’s left-overs,_ returned the pessimist.

No! Ginny took over the conversation in her head. That wasn’t left-overs. She’d seen the look in his eyes. She _knew_ it was all for her. But how in Merlin’s name was she ever going to get him to admit it when he seemed so determined not to?

The door eased open and Hermione stuck her head in. “Ginny?” Her eyes went wide when she saw Ginny on the floor. She was in with the door locked and lifting Ginny to the sofa in the space of a heartbeat. “Ginny, what happened. Are you okay? Harry said you might need help, but he didn’t say—”

“I’m fine,” Ginny said, just to stop the flow of words that had set her head to pounding. She really could use a hangover potion about now. Letting her head fall back against the sofa, she closed her eyes. “Just had a bit too much to drink and Harry used a Sobriety Charm on me.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yuck. I don’t have a potion here. But wait…” She walked to the desk, pulled a small bottle from the bottom drawer and scooped the glass of water from the floor on her way back to the sofa. “Try these. They’ll help your head until you get back to your flat.” She dropped three white button-like things into Ginny’s hand. “Just put them at the back of your tongue and take a big gulp of water to wash them down. They’re really nasty if you chew them.”

After two tries, Ginny managed to swallow the tablets, Hermione called them, and leaned back against the sofa again. “Thanks.”

“So what happened?” Hermione asked gently.

Ginny heaved a weary sigh. “I discovered that I like scotch a bit too much and your friend Mr. Lockerby is a bit too friendly.”

“Mmm. I suspected. I’ve always stayed away from him unless Mum and Dad are around. He gives me the creeps.”

“Sort of reminds me of Gilderoy Lockhart,” Ginny said, her eyes still closed but a teasing tone in her voice. “I’d have thought you’d like him.”

“Prat!” Hermione gave her shoulder a slap.

“Hey! Easy! I’m not well enough to defend myself right now,” Ginny said without opening her eyes. Even the dim lamps seemed blinding. The silence stretched until Ginny could stand it no longer and turned her head to peek at Hermione’s worried face. “What?”

“Is that what happened? Did Harry have to defend you?”

Ginny pushed herself up and turned to face Hermione. “I wouldn’t say _defend_ … He used a wandless Confundus, but he looked like he was ready to hex the man senseless.”

Hermione grimaced. “I could tell he was pretty tense.”

Flushing, Ginny stared at her fingers twisted together in her lap. “There’s more. I... erm, well... I sort of came on to him. Harry. Not…”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Came on to Harry,” she repeated, her voice tight as a bowstring. “Came on to Harry, how?”

Ginny lifted her chin in defiance. “I... I tried to kiss him.”

“And how did he respond?”

Throwing her hands into the air, Ginny huffed in exasperation. “He didn’t. Well, except to hit me with that Sobriety Charm. Real mood killer that.”

Hermione snorted. “Ginny, he said he wants to be friends. You should just leave it at that. At least for now.”

“But, Hermione, I _want_ him. I _need_ him so badly.” So much for convincing Hermione that being just friends was okay. Ginny laced her fingers together as if in prayer. “I practically have to tie my hands down to keep from touching him. And he wants me, too. I know he does. You should have seen him. He was so… so… If I could just give him a push, just—”

“No!” Hermione grabbed Ginny’s shoulders and gave her a little shake that sent a slicing pain through her brain. “No, please don’t push right now. That’s the worst thing you could do.”

“But—”

“Ginny, no! He’s skittish with _all_ of us right now… like a spooked Hippogriff. If we don’t back off and wait until he bows, he’s going to fly away and we’ll never get him back.” At Ginny’s look of frustration, Hermione ran a hand over her face and gave a weary sigh. “Think, Ginny. What did he see in the Mirror of Erised?”

“Family,” Ginny answered without having to think. She and Harry had talked about it during one of their weekends in the Room of Requirement. “He wants a family. But he _has_ one. _We’re_ his family.”

“Yes, but he’s not sure of that. He’s afraid to believe or… or… to let himself relax and accept it.”

“Because of me,” Ginny said in a small voice as understanding hit. “Because even if he could let himself become part of the family again, he can’t risk things not working out with me because he might lose everything again.”

Hermione didn’t voice her agreement, but the pity in her eyes said it all.

Ginny sat back and gave Hermione a searching look. “Did he tell you that?”

Hermione’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “You know Harry doesn’t talk about his feelings. But he doesn’t have to use words to tell me things. Especially things he doesn’t want to tell me at all.”

At that moment, Ginny hated Hermione a little bit for understanding Harry so well. She dropped her head into her hands. “I’ve really mucked things up, haven’t I? I’m going to pay for that one stupid mistake for the rest of my life.”

Hermione wrapped a warm arm around her and pressed Ginny’s head onto her shoulder. “No, I don’t think it’ll be that long. We just have to give him some time.”

“How much longer? It’s been years already.” Ginny’s voice pitched higher with fear as another thought hit her. “And he’s leaving in four days. We don’t _have_ any time.”

“We’ve got at least an extra week,” Hermione said. “Ron said something’s come up with his case and he’s got meetings with the Minister next week so his Portkey’s been rescheduled until the following week. Ron told him he couldn’t leave until we get back from Italy.”

The air in the room suddenly seemed lighter, easier to breathe. Ginny heaved a defeated sigh. “Okay. Fine. I’ll back off. I’ll wait for him to come to me, no matter how long it takes… even if it kills me.”

Hermione chuckled and held out a hand to help her up. “I think you’ll survive. At least he’s here. That’s miles beyond where we were this time last year. I think we’re all going to survive.”

Ginny wasn’t so sure.


	39. Always the Bridesmaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What wedding doesn't need a bit of drama?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting and sequence of events for the wedding and reception are loosely based on the first wedding in the film “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” guidelines at the Wedding Chaos website, and comments and suggestions from the nice people in the LiveJournal hp_britglish community. The “Muggle” ceremony wording is taken from the Church of England Common Worship Text online.

“Harry, Harry, Harry… My poor, dear boy,” Seamus intoned sadly in a dreamy, nasal impersonation of their former Divination teacher Sybill Trelawney. “Alas, you...” He paused for a dramatic shuddering sigh. “You...” He slapped the back of his hand across his forehead and choked back a sob. “You shall be trampled… mangled beyond recognition but for your faaaaamous scar… by a screaming mob of teenage girls and middle-aged housewives, all vying DES-perately for your autograph on their copies of _Witch Weekly_. I fear, my dear boy, that your killer smile will finally be the death of you.” Seamus’s expression turned indignant as his audience howled with laughter. “You laugh? You laugh? I tell you the Inner Eye sees ALLLLLLL…” he finished on a dramatic crescendo.

Draped in a tangle of scarves and beads, a scraggly wig, and outrageously oversized glasses that magnified his eyes to saucer size, Seamus was predicting an outlandish demise for each of the men sprawled on various pieces of furniture around the room at Ron’s stag do. Unfortunately, his prophecy for Harry was based on more truth than the others had been—just that morning, the magazine’s “Most Charming Smile” issue had come out with Harry’s picture on the cover…again.

Clutching his sides in helpless hilarity, Harry was surprised to find himself finally starting to shed the sense of detachment he’d had all evening. He had thought that, without Ginny around, this would be the one event of the week where he could let down his guard and just have fun—a night to laugh and get pissed and enjoy the company of Ron’s brothers and Auror training partners, and their former Hogwarts classmates. His first clue that things weren’t going to go as planned was Dean Thomas's arrival.

As soon as he stepped in the door, Dean made it clear that his animosity toward Harry hadn't waned over the years. In spite of his engagement to Lisa Turpin, Dean still held a grudge over his competition with Harry for Ginny, and Harry was surprised to find his own antagonism flaring back to life. But, for Ron’s sake, they exchanged a civil greeting and retreated to opposite sides of the group.

Once everyone had arrived at the Burrow, the party had Portkeyed to the first stop of the evening—a Muggle strip club on the Croatian coast. The Weasley brothers had selected the location, popular among their Muggle countrymen, mostly to avoid the British press. Hermione and the rest of the wizarding world didn’t need to read about their activities on the front page of the _Prophet_ tomorrow.

Unfortunately, while the rest of the group had fallen easily into the spirit of the evening, Harry found the dark, smoky room echoing with Eastern European accents unsettling; some sort of deal was going down in the far corner, but this was Muggle jurisdiction and not one of his undercover missions. With an effort, he looked away and shifted his back to the wall, toying with the drink he had no intention of swallowing and watching the other patrons more than the activities on stage—the novelty of anonymous naked bodies on display had worn off long ago.

“Not your cup of tea, Harry?” Bill grinned as he settled into the next chair.

Harry shrugged and gave him a passing glance before scanning the room again. “Can’t relax in a place like this.”

Bill pointedly studied Harry’s full glass and guarded position, then nodded and launched into a tale of Victoire’s latest bout of accidental magic. Grateful not to have to explain, Harry tried to give the story his full attention and eventually had to laugh at Bill’s comical description of a pink polka-dotted cat with fairy wings flying about the sitting room.

“Oi! Bill!” Charlie’s voice rose over the din of music and catcalls for the latest performer. “Too good to mingle with the riff raff, are you?”

“Two words, Charlie,” Bill called back jovially, holding up two fingers that carried an entirely different message. “Veela. Wife. Even if these birds could compare, Veela have really nasty tempers.”

Roaring with laughter, Charlie focused his gaze on Harry, but couldn’t get a word out before Harry had flicked a finger, sending Charlie’s attention blithely back to the stage. Bill raised an eyebrow, more impressed than disapproving, and went back to their conversation without comment. In spite of Harry’s obsessive need to keep watch, he managed to chat amiably with Bill until the show ended, then helped herd the boisterous group into the nearby alley to Portkey to a small wizarding village north of the city where Harry had rented a holiday villa, complete with a lavish buffet and well-stocked bar. The party had just begun.

Seamus was now spinning a gloomy prophecy for Neville, so Harry grabbed a bottle of beer and settled back on his tall bar stool against the wall, glad to be out of the spotlight once more. Downing several swallows, he watched Seamus’s antics and laughed in all the right places, but when the warm buzz of alcohol hit his brain, he set his bottle aside with a snort of disgust—ever since that incident in Moldova, he couldn’t drink anything stronger than Butterbeer without his Auror instincts kicking into high gear. So now he was too paranoid even to get properly pissed at a party with friends in a house protected by wards to rival Gringott’s. He was turning into a pathetic replica of Moody without a magical eye… although the madness did seem to be setting in.

With a sigh, Harry leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The feeling of detachment was returning. What did he really have in common with these blokes, anyway, besides school and the war—and not even that with the three awestruck Auror trainees whose parents had taken them out of the country during the worst of it? Everyone in the group had moved on with their lives and formed plans for happy futures. And all of them—even perpetual bachelor Charlie and stiff-necked Percy—had found someone to share their happily-ever-afters. Harry was the only one stuck in limbo, still fighting battles with Death Eaters, with no hope for home or family.

_But you could change that, if you would just let go…_

The errant thought crumbled his carefully built walls, sending the previous night’s encounter with Ginny crashing in on him. The first part of the evening had been glorious. Since he was playing a role anyway, he’d allowed himself to pretend that she was his to treat like a special treasure—he could touch her and smile at her and breathe her scent… And he would’ve got away with it for the whole evening if Ella and Linley hadn’t come along. The spoilt rich-boy role had demanded that he go along with them, but thank Merlin that Summers had caught his signal to cut in on the dance with Ella when that slimy Lockhart-wannabe had got Ginny drunk and tried to take advantage of her. Harry had risen to a whole new level of self-control when he’d let that man walk out of the room in one piece.

But then, he had been alone with Ginny. And his relief at finding her safe had sent him plunging back into the pit of desire.

His hand lifted of its own accord to stroke his jaw, savoring the trail of warmth from her mouth that he swore he could still feel. Avoiding her kiss had been the hardest thing he’d ever done—with her body molded to his and her scent filling his lungs, if he’d allowed her to kiss him properly, he’d have been lost. Only the whiff of scotch on her breath had saved him. As much as he’d regretted having to sober her up so harshly, he was certain if he’d allowed her to continue she would have had more to regret later. They both would.

A burst of laughter jerked Harry back to the present and straight into George’s angry gaze. Harry had seen that look several times over the past couple of days, but only in glimpses so fleeting he thought he’d imagined it. The one time they’d spoken, that first afternoon at the Burrow, George had been not-quite-friendly but not overtly hostile either, and they hadn’t spoken since. Distracted by Ginny, Harry hadn’t thought much about it until he’d overheard George’s snide remarks at the Minister’s party. He knew that they hadn’t been on the best of terms when he’d left two years ago, but that had been because Ginny was ill. She was better now, so surely George was too... or not. The message in the daggers George was glaring across the room was unmistakable—George obviously had something he wanted to say… in private.

Harry held the stare without flinching, then, with a nearly imperceptible nod, slid from his stool and walked casually out of the room. Anyone watching would think he was headed for the loo, but he turned the opposite direction and slipped silently down the stairs, through the fitness room, and out the glass doors to the poolside terrace.

A breeze had kicked up, but the night was warm and slightly muggy with an egg-shaped moon hovering over the western horizon that cast a silvery glow bright enough navigate the unfamiliar territory littered with lounge chairs and side tables. Harry propped himself against the wall beside the pool where he had a good view of the door and the twinkling lights in the valley below. He had only a few seconds to squash the thoughts of Remus evoked by the nearly full moon when George appeared in the doorway.

Harry remained still for a moment, using the shadows as cover to watch George and try to work out the reason for such anger. Only one thing came to mind.

“Is this about Fred?” Harry asked quietly a second before he stepped into the moonlight.

George’s bitter bark of laughter bounced off the stonework across the water. He turned to face Harry, feet braced apart, hands on his hips, tone of derision in his voice. “You really _do_ get by on more luck than brains, don’t you? _No_ , this isn’t about Fred.”

Harry stopped a couple of feet away, keeping his body carefully neutral but tensed for action.

“Fred chose to fight,” George continued with a sneer. “And, much as I hate to say it, I’m grateful to you for destroying that bastard who _did_ kill him. But, _un_ like the rest of the wizarding world, I’m not grateful enough to let you get away with anything you want. I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy my sister again. I’ve seen you watching her. I saw the way you played her last night—”

“She knew I was acting out a role,” Harry couldn’t keep from blurting, in spite of the jolt of guilt that shot through him. Surely she’d known… hadn’t she?

“What role? Egocentric cad? String a bird along until another one catches your eye? You were _born_ to play that one, weren’t you? Well from now on, you just leave Ginny out of your little dramas.”

“I have no intention—”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about your bloody _intentions_. Doesn’t seem to matter what your _intentions_ are. You leave a path of destruction everywhere you go. You’ve nearly broken her twice, messing her around and walking away. The last time took her nearly a year to come back to herself. She’s happy now. She’s dating someone, and he makes her happy. She doesn’t need you.”

 _Ginny’s dating someone?_ Harry was too shocked to respond, although he somehow managed not to let it show on his face. Since she'd attended all the events alone, and after last night, he'd just assumed...

George stepped into Harry’s space, looming over him with a menace. “I can’t do anything about you being Ron’s best mate, he’s too far gone. But the rest of us don’t need you.”

Even though he had no defense—in fact, agreed wholeheartedly—Harry refused to back down and growled out the only thought that he could grasp. “Ginny can take care of herself, you know. She won’t thank you for—”

“Yeah, well, she’s not going to find out, is she?” George sneered. “You just go back where you came from and leave my family alone. We’re better off without you.”

“George! What’s going on here?”

Harry startled at the new voice, but didn’t break eye contact with George. How long had Bill been standing there? And how much had he heard?

Before Harry could finish the thought, George had relaxed into his usual affable stance, flinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders and beaming the trademark Weasley-twin grin. “Just getting reacquainted, big bro.” George used a seemingly friendly jostle to cover the iron fingers nearly drawing blood from Harry’s bicep. “Harry and I haven’t had a chance to visit since he got back. We were just catching up, weren’t we Harry?”

Bill’s eyes narrowed as he looked to Harry for confirmation.

“Yeah. Just catching up,” Harry said, forcefully containing his grimace of pain. He wouldn’t give George the satisfaction.

With a final vicious squeeze, George stepped away and rubbed his hands together as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Guess I’d best get back inside. I reckon the boys are pissed enough by now to be persuaded to test my new prototypes. Can’t wait to see how they like the Balls O’ Fire-whiskey. Wonder who will be the first out of their pants?” George chuckled as Harry made a mental note not to eat or drink anything else while they were here.

Bill watched George until the door had clicked shut, then rounded on Harry. “What did he say to you?”

A sad smile forced itself onto Harry’s face. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”

Bill cast an angry glare at the door before turning back with a determined look. “I only heard the last part, but he doesn’t speak for the family, you know. The rest of us don’t feel that way.”

Running a weary hand through his hair, Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone in a couple of weeks, anyway. Earlier, if I can work it out. No one will need to be fussed about it, then.”

Bill looked for a moment as if he were making a decision, then nodded to himself before placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Look, I have to say this now because you’re not likely to give me another chance. I know you have to leave again. I understand about needing to prove to yourself that you can make it on your own—I spent years in Egypt doing just that. Go and do what you have to do, but keep in touch. And when you finish, you come back to us. No matter what that arse George says, we’re your family and the rest of us care about you—especially Mum…” he drew a deep breath, as if he were plunging into deep water, “…and Ginny. They’ll take it the hardest when you leave.”

Harry’s protective shields snapped quickly into place as he turned to look out over the valley below. What did he know about being part of a family? And Ginny was a closed topic. George had only confirmed what Harry already knew—things with Ginny would never work, especially if she was dating and happy. Harry could never go down that road again.

“We should go back in,” he said, gently dislodging himself from Bill’s hand to walk over and hold open the door. “Ron will wonder where we’ve gone off to.”

Bill stood before the door, searching Harry’s face for a moment. Finally, with a heavy sigh and a deep frown that said he was ending the conversation under duress, he turned and headed up the stairs.

Harry watched until Bill was out of sight, then locked himself in the downstairs bathroom and rested his head against the cool tile wall. Coming back had been a huge mistake. The sooner he got back to the search for Dolohov, the better. If he could only make it through Saturday—his final direct contact with Ginny—everything would be fine.

***

Ginny peeked through the doors of the narthex into the sanctuary of the small parish church that Hermione had attended as a child. Something about it reminded Ginny of the Great Hall, even if the soaring ceiling didn’t reflect the heavy clouds outside (at least it had stopped raining). She supposed the similarity had mostly to do with the stone floor and the Gothic arches that separated the rows of pews from the outer aisles, because, otherwise, it was less than half the size and really looked nothing at all like the Great Hall. But, all the same, she felt like she was back at school.

Scanning the murmuring crowd, she recognized the backs of several heads—other Weasleys, Luna, Neville—and one or two other people who turned to glance back at the doors or speak to a companion—was that Viktor Krum talking to the dark-haired woman on the next to last row? Of course, the one person Ginny was looking for was right where she’d expect him to be, standing to the side of the altar, his back to her, leaning in to listen as Ron bent over to whisper in his ear. They were wearing matching dove-colored morning coats, but when Harry shifted to the side a bit, Ginny couldn’t help her startled gasp and the little bang when she shut the door.

“Hermione!” she hissed, then waited until the camera had flashed and Hermione looked away from the pose she’d struck with her father. “Did you know that Ron’s wearing a Cannons-orange waistcoat?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I know. Harry said he tried to talk him out of it, but I’m not sure how _hard_ he tried. Mum is probably having kittens. But really, it doesn’t matter, does it? Ron hasn’t had much say in anything else about this wedding, so if he wants to look ridiculous in an orange waistcoat, that’s fine by me.” The indulgent tone of her voice and the amusement in her eyes took the sting from her words. Ginny was certain Ron could’ve worn full Cannons game gear or nothing but orange boxers and Hermione wouldn’t have cared. They might scrap like Crups and Kneazles under normal conditions, but this week they’d been acting more like a pair of nesting Nifflers.

Mr. Granger seemed amused by his daughter’s dreamy smile as he held out his elbow and stepped into position before the doors. “Ready, poppet?”

Hermione stretched up to put a kiss on his cheek. “Love you, Daddy,” she whispered then rubbed at the lipstick she’d left behind before taking his arm.

A wave of sadness washed over Ginny as she watched them and wondered if she’d ever stand like that with her own father one day. The only man she wanted to meet at the other end of the aisle had made it clear he wasn’t a prospect, and she couldn’t imagine ever wanting anyone else enough to make the trip. With a sigh, she adjusted Hermione’s train and took her place to follow them in.

“Does Ron know you invited Viktor Krum?” Ginny murmured as she checked to be sure her wand was secure in her bouquet and ran a nervous hand through her hair. She’d left it down, charmed to fall in thick wavy flames over her shoulders... the way Harry liked it.

Hermione cast a smirk over her shoulder as she patted her own sophisticated chignon—Ron had requested “something he could pull down later.” The style was seemingly held in place only by her wand (she’d said the Muggles would think it was just a decorative hair stick) and a sprig of meadowsweet, but Ginny was certain more than a little magic was involved. “Actually, it was Ron’s idea to invite Viktor,” Hermione said, catching Ginny’s attention again. “He said he wanted to ‘rub that Bulgarian ponce’s nose in it.’ But I don’t think that’s going to work. Your mum said Viktor’s reply card indicated he was bringing a date.”

“One more picture,” Dennis Creevey whispered, waving between Ginny and Hermione. “Closer together, you two.”

They leaned in and smiled as the flash blinded them. During his last two years at Hogwarts, Dennis had learned to use Colin’s photography equipment and, when he finished school, had got a job with the _Quibbler_. Because he had grown up Muggle and could give them both moving and still pictures, Ron and Hermione had hired him to act as wedding photographer—which also, effectively, gave the _Quibbler_ the scoop for the nuptials and ignited a firestorm of protest from the wizarding news media worldwide. The wedding had attracted more press attention than any single event since the end of the war.

As a result, security was as tight as for any Quidditch World Cup. The church had been warded heavily against magical folk who hadn’t been specifically invited—Ginny thought it ironic that no Muggle-repelling charms had been set. Beyond the wards and in the skies, two Auror units were patrolling to ensure that the press and other gawkers couldn’t cause trouble, while inside, at least a half-dozen Aurors and Obliviators were seated incognito among the guests to deal with potential threats to the Statute of Secrecy.

Auntie Muriel was one of the biggest concerns, but they’d decided the Weasleys could make enough “crazy old lady” references to throw off Muggle suspicion. And to explain the presence of the wizard who’d performed the other recent Weasley weddings, they’d listed in the order of service sheets that Ron’s “new-age minister” would perform a “bond blessing” at the end of the regular ceremony. But the most critical problem would be the glittering ribbons of the magical bonding itself.

Hermione had spent weeks researching spells that would allow the magical guests to see the glowing spirals while obscuring them from the Muggles, but she’d been frustrated at every turn. Ron had finally offered the simple solution of having Harry and Ginny toss handfuls of sparkling confetti over them at the moment of the bonding—“Muggles see what they want to see anyway,” he’d said with a shrug. Hermione had been giddy with relief and, from the smug look on Ron’s face later, she must have rewarded him well for his cleverness. Ginny wasn’t convinced that they’d get away with the charade, but had decided to just do her part and let everyone else worry about the consequences.

With a final unnecessary adjustment to Hermione’s train as the music started and the doors opened, Ginny straightened and nervously fingered the invisible lightning bolt pendant at her throat before she caught herself and wrapped both hands around her bouquet. She wasn’t quite sure why she was so nervous. She hadn’t felt this way at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and that had taken place at the dawn of the war. But that time, Harry hadn’t been waiting at the end of the aisle. Even if he wasn’t waiting there for her.

With all of the guests standing and Hermione in front of her, Ginny couldn’t see Harry properly until she was three rows from the front. She boldly met the fleeting glance he spared her, but couldn’t read the look in his eyes from so far away. His face was an impassive mask until he turned his gaze toward Hermione and it melted into an indulgent smile.

Ginny swallowed the bubble of disappointment and jealousy that swelled in her throat as she stepped into place. She hadn’t really expected him to react any differently, especially not after the spectacle she’d made of herself at the Granger’s party. Last night at the rehearsal, he’d spoken politely to her only when necessary and had never made eye contact. Mum had insisted everyone come to the Burrow for supper afterward (since she hadn’t been allowed to cook for the wedding) and, when bloody George hadn’t been right on top of them, Harry had deftly avoided Ginny’s attempts to get him alone and apologize. As soon as Hermione had left with her parents—Mrs. Granger had insisted on following some nonsensical Muggle tradition—Harry had whisked Ron off to Grimmauld Place.

And the family conference on Harry’s resistance to their efforts to draw him back into the fold had begun in earnest. Almost everyone—even Percy—had offered ideas on ways to reach him. The only ones who hadn’t actively participated in the discussion had been Ginny and George. But Ginny hadn’t had a chance to investigate George’s sullen attitude further because the third time he muttered something under his breath, Angelina had rolled her eyes and shoved him toward the fireplace, saying, “If you can’t contribute anything constructive, we’re going home.” Even though Ginny knew she’d probably be the next topic of conversation among those remaining, she had excused herself shortly afterward, pleading the need for beauty sleep but really just wanting to crawl under her blankets and nurse her bruised heart. 

“Can’t imagine why that girl wouldn’t wear my tiara. It’s goblin-made, you know.” Ginny cringed as Auntie Muriel’s voice rang out over the music. “And what has happened to the back of Ginevra’s dress? All of her skin is showing through!”

Ginny couldn’t help smirking at Harry, just as she’d done at Bill and Fleur’s wedding when Auntie Muriel had said something similar. But Harry would have to turn his head to see her properly from where they stood opposite each other slightly behind and bracketing Ron and Hermione, and he seemed to be totally focused on the vicar’s opening words. Ginny took a casual step forward with her left foot to angle her stance a bit so she could watch him. The emotions playing across his profile as he cast occasional glances at his best friends were fascinating; this was the most unguarded she’d seen him since he’d returned.

When he suddenly closed his eyes and turned his face to the floor, Ginny realized she hadn’t been paying attention to the ceremony and jerked her own head down for the prayer—these Muggle traditions were so strange. She didn’t even pretend to close her eyes, but peeked through her lashes to watch Harry run a hand over his dark grey waistcoat pocket, no doubt making certain he still had the rings while he thought no one would see. For some reason, the idea that he might be a bit nervous eased her own jitters.

When he raised his head as the prayer ended and the music for the hymn began, his impassive mask was back in place. A shimmer of irritation radiated through her gut. What the bloody hell was he doing? _Why_ was he doing it? Surely it had to be more than leftover anger from their tumultuous breakup. If he was still angry with her, why was he shutting everyone else out, too?

The song ended and the vicar’s voice drew Ginny back into the present although she couldn’t bring herself to take her eyes from Harry.

“We have come together in the presence of God, to witness the marriage of Ronald Bilius Weasley and Hermione Jane Granger, to ask his blessing on them, and to share in their joy…”

The words of the traditional Muggle ceremony faded into a drone as Ginny watched emotion wipe away Harry’s mask once more. His eyes, now pinned on Ron and Hermione, held a look of desperate longing that she’d seen dozens of times in the eyes of children in George’s shop: desire for something they’d been told they couldn’t have or couldn’t afford. Ginny couldn’t help following his line of sight—Ron and Hermione were beaming at each other, alone in their own little world—and the same yearning hollowed out the space around her heart.

The vicar’s words became clear once more and Ginny shifted her focus to him.

“The gift of marriage brings husband and wife together in the delight and tenderness of sexual union and joyful commitment to the end of their lives. It is given as the foundation of family life in which children are born and nurtured and in which each member of the family, in good times and in bad, may find strength, companionship and comfort, and grow to maturity in love…”

Though she’d never heard them before, the words struck a familiar chord in Ginny’s heart. Strength, companionship, comfort, love… family. They were all of the things she wanted out of life. All of the things Harry had once wanted.

She tore her eyes from the vicar and found Harry looking directly at her. He immediately turned away and dropped his mask back into place, but not before she’d seen the same hunger that had been on his face at the Granger’s party.

Ginny’s heart lurched and pounded so hard she was surprised no one could hear it echoing off the stone walls. He _still_ wanted those things. And he wanted them with _her_. She was positive of it. But for some reason, he had convinced himself that he couldn’t have them.

The irritation in her gut blazed into righteous anger. Hermione had said not to push, but maybe he needed to be pushed… maybe he _wanted_ to be pushed. Ginny had never been one to hold her tongue when she had something to say; now wasn’t the time to start. Sod her promise to Hermione. Today might be her last chance to talk to him alone and, with everyone watching them on the dance floor, he wouldn’t be able to just walk away again. If Hermione’s theory was right—that he thought the failed relationship with Ginny had caused him to lose the rest of the Weasleys, too—the least she should do is reassure him that she’d never purposely do anything to come between him and her family again. Then, if they could draw him back in, make him feel safe and secure, perhaps, with time… no! No, no, no. She couldn’t count on that. She’d ruined her chance and now she had to make it up to Harry.

“…anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, declare it now…”

Harry sent a scowl over his shoulder that dared anyone to make a peep. Ginny wondered who he thought might object as she smiled into her bouquet, taking comfort in the thought that the familiar, over-protective Harry was still in there, somewhere.

The rest of the ceremony seemed interminable. The choir sang. The vicar spoke of love and loyalty and honor, then prayed what seemed like a thousand prayers seeking blessings on the union. Ron and Hermione exchanged vows and rings, still wrapped in their own euphoria. Harry became so caught up in the ceremony that his own face—the one Ginny had always been able to read like an open book—slipped back into place, and she grew more convinced than ever that she would finally be able to reach him.

At long last, the Ministry wizard stepped forward, his wand disguised as a censer. Ginny forcibly pulled herself from her musings and gripped her bouquet-circled wand tightly. Timing was everything if they were going to pull this off. Harry was watching her again, but this time his eyes were determined, focused on the task at hand and her heart sank when he didn’t return her tentative smile.

“…then I declare you bonded for life.”

Just as the tufty-haired wizard lifted his censer/wand over Ron’s and Hermione’s heads, Ginny made a tossing motion with her bouquet and whispered a spell, shooting a fountain of sparkly confetti into the air to mix with the magical spirals of silver stars. Harry mirrored her move with his hand, although his confetti was more likely conjured wandlessly. And, miraculously, at the same moment, the sun broke through the heavy clouds outside, flooding the church with golden beams that seemed to add an extra blessing to the event and evoked a chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” from the congregation.

Harry smiled broadly, joyously. At Ginny. The first genuine smile he’d given her since he’d returned, even if his eyes were glittering with unshed tears.

She swallowed heavily and smiled back, her heart swelling with hope.

And then the moment—only a second, really—was gone. Ron and Hermione broke their kiss, Hermione held out her hand for her bouquet that she’d passed to Ginny at some point during the ceremony, and the recessional music swelled. As Ginny tucked her hand into the crook of Harry’s arm so he could lead her out, she looked up to search his face. The smile was gone. The mask was back. Her heart clenched in dismay and she wondered if she’d survive this jinxed-broom-ride of emotions.

Ginny had a terrible time pasting on a happy face as they all stopped to pose for pictures on the church steps. After a long string of various combinations of family and wedding party shots, Dennis asked Harry to stand behind her, his hands on her waist, for a shot of just the two of them. Ginny’s stomach churned when she saw the flex of muscle in his jaw before he smoothed his features and complied with the request. Breathing, much less smiling, required all of her concentration at the feel of his calloused thumbs resting on her bare skin next to where the straps of her dress met the waistline in the back. No doubt, the wizarding photos would clearly show the violent trembling of her bouquet, but she could do nothing about it. As soon as the flash went off, Harry released her and stepped away without a word, as if touching her had scorched his hands. She shivered at the abrupt withdrawal of his warmth and blew a shuddering sigh into her flowers, blinking down into them to soothe the stinging at the backs of her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Ginny jerked up her head to meet Hermione’s worried gaze.

“Fine,” Ginny said, determinedly squashing her self-pity and quirking up one corner of her mouth in a half-hearted smile. As Hermione’s eyebrow lifted in obvious disbelief, Ginny forced a wider grin and a brighter note into her voice. “I’m fine. Promise. This is your day. You shouldn’t be worrying about anyone but Ron right now.”

Hermione’s gaze shifted over Ginny’s shoulder. “I worry about Harry, too. I can’t help it. I wish…”

“Hermione!” Ginny knew her tone was too harsh, but she was having a hard enough time getting her emotions under control without Hermione’s pity. And she had to be in control when she talked to Harry later. “This is your wedding day. You should be enjoying yourself and making memories with your husband.” And didn’t that just sound weird in reference to Ron? “You can worry about things you can’t control when you get back from your honeymoon.”

The distraction worked. Hermione’s smile turned Luna-dreamy and her voice filled with wonder. “My husband. Ron’s my husband now.”

As if on cue, Ron walked up behind Hermione and slipped his arms around her waist. “Hello, wife.”

As Hermione turned her head to give him a kiss over her shoulder, Ginny looked away… right into Harry’s green gaze. He spun on his heel and walked around the corner of the church almost before Ginny could register the move. Of course, he could’ve been watching Ron and Hermione and reacting to the same envy that had engulfed Ginny. Or not. Dancing with him later was going to be interesting. She wondered which of his personas would show up.

***

Seated conspicuously at the end of the top table, Harry ducked his head and stared blindly at the scribbled notes he held in his lap. He seriously doubted that he’d say any of these things—the way this day had gone, so far, he wouldn’t be surprised at anything that came out of his mouth—but he’d used the excuse of preparing for his speech as a way to politely put an end to Mrs. Weasley’s gentle but insistent chiding about eating properly and not shirking his responsibilities. Not that he really minded; he’d always felt comforted when she treated him like one of her own. Of course, he wasn’t expecting Mrs. Granger’s “chiding” later to be gentle all—the Grangers seemed to blame him, rather than Hermione, for their year in Australia… and that was just fine. But Harry wasn’t the least bit sorry that he’d skived off the receiving line. He’d just needed some time to collect himself. To regain control.

Totally blindsided by the emotional impact of seeing the two people he cared most for in the world pledge themselves to each other, he’d been even less prepared for the envy and longing it dredged up from the depths of his soul. Keeping his emotions in check during the ceremony had been impossible, especially with Ginny watching him so closely.

Squashing the welling emotion that _that_ thought evoked, he turned his unseeing gaze out over the chattering clusters of guests enjoying their meal inside the huge marquee on the lawn behind the church. The tent was as close to a real fairyland as Muggles could make it, bedecked with gauze-draped lights, tinkling crystal chandeliers, and opulent arrangements of peach-colored roses, white lilies, and some tiny, lacy white flowers that Neville could probably name, but Harry couldn’t.

He closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment on his breathing, searching for the calm he could usually find in the momentary meditation Fleur had taught him so many years ago. But his brain rebelled, making his fingers tingle with the memory of Ginny’s warm skin and his nose twitch with her lingering scent. Damn Hermione and her bloody ideas about including him—them—in the first dance! He was never going to make it through. He supposed he should be grateful that Hermione’s mother had insisted on following to the letter that book she’d used to plan the wedding and reception (Hermione came by it honestly) and had seated Ginny at the opposite end of the top table.

“Are you finished, sir?”

Harry jerked his head up to find a white-coated waiter gesturing at his mostly untouched plate.

“Oh. Erm, yes. Thanks.” He leaned back to allow the waiter to take away the china and silver, while another filled his flute with champagne for the toast. He started to wave off a third who moved to set dessert in front of him.

“Oi! Mate! Take it!” Ron was leaning his chair back on two legs to look down the table behind Hermione, Mr. Granger, and Mrs. Weasley. “Hermione picked it ‘specially for you. I’ll eat whatever you don’t, you know,” he added with a grin.

Harry grinned back—at least some things hadn’t changed—and nodded at the waiter, then broke into a full-blown smile at the huge helping of treacle tart with a glistening scoop of ice cream. He spooned up a mouthful and sighed in bliss before leaning over the table to jiggle his spoon and nod at Hermione’s questioning look. She beamed at him and mouthed, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Harry ate a few more bites of his tart. Something about his favorite childhood comfort food and the familiar interactions with his friends had calmed his emotions and steadied his nerves. Not that he was usually that nervous about public speaking anymore. He’d done quite enough of it right after the war. But this was different. This was personal.

Passing the remainder of his dessert down to Ron—Charlie and Bill, seated at one of the closer tables, taunted Ron good-naturedly—Harry took a drink of water and drew a deep breath as he stood and flicked on the microphone that had been left in front of his place setting. Mr. Granger clinked a spoon against his goblet to catch the attention of the crowd.

When everyone was quiet, Harry gave a wry smile. “I think this is the part where I’m supposed to take the mickey out of Ron until he turns the color of that horrible waistcoat he’s wearing.” Harry’s smile widened as the crowd chuckled and Ron looked down at himself in shock.

“It’s not horrible!”

“Yeah, well, whatever, Ron. Maybe Hermione can pound some sense into you one of these days. Though she hasn’t done it yet, so…”

With the second wave of laughter, Hermione’s cheeks pinked and she shook her head in exasperation. Relief washed over Harry. This part, at least, was going to be fine.

“So, what can I say about my two best friends that won’t get me killed before they leave for their honeymoon?” As light laughter rippled through the tent once more, Harry tapped a finger to his chin, then held it up as if coming up with a thought. “I suppose I _could_ tell you why Ron’s so afraid of spiders and willow trees… and how his love of chocolate landed him in the hospital wing. Or, I _could_ tell you why Hermione is a bit more careful with cat hair now and how she spent one year _really_ making the most of her time.” He paused for effect, even though the laughter was now sparse and polite. Almost no one would understand the references, but Harry didn’t care—Ron and Hermione knew and they were the only ones who mattered. He smirked as he turned to face them. “But after… how many years, now?” —Hermione held up ten fingers— “Ten years. Wow! That’s hard to believe isn’t it? So, after ten years, I know _way_ too many of your secrets and we’d be here till next week if I tried to tell them all. I swear, Ron, how a silly sod like you managed to land the prettiest, smartest girl in the whole school is still beyond me.” Ron pumped his fist victoriously in the air as Harry’s grin grew wicked. “I guess I was just too young and clueless to realize that all that bickering you two did while we were in school was just foreplay.” The audience gasped, then shrieked with laughter. “Seven looooong years of foreplay,” Harry added over the commotion.

“HAR-RY!” Hermione turned crimson and buried her face in her hands. Ron’s ears were nearly purple, but he was grinning madly.

“Did you even last a minute the first time, mate?”

Cackling uncontrollably, Ron held up two fingers in a gesture that made his mother squawk and the audience howl even louder.

“Oh, _two_ minutes,” Harry quipped, mirroring the gesture. “I’m impressed.”

Hermione slung a fist playfully into Ron’s chest and raised her head enough to send them both a pseudo-menacing glare. She shook her finger at Harry. “You’re going to regret this Harry James Potter. Don’t forget, I know all of _your_ secrets, too.”

The teasing tone in her voice took the threat from the words, but Harry’s smile faded and his tone grew somber. “Yes. Yes, you do know all of my secrets.” He allowed his feelings to show as he met Hermione’s eyes then shifted his gaze to Ron’s. The crowd grew still. Harry continued, his voice heavy with emotion. “You’re the only people in the whole world who _do_ know me… who know… well, everything. You were there for me when no one else was. You’ve been to hell and back with me more times than I can count. I just… I don’t have the words to say what the two of you mean to me… and I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to see the two of you so happy… together. You’re my first friends… my best friends.” He struck his heart with his fist. “You’re _my_ heroes.”

Harry stopped, unable to force more words past the knot in his throat. He blinked a couple of times to clear his blurry vision and watched as Ron swiped at his red-rimmed eyes. Hermione didn’t even try to stem the flow of tears. A chorus of sniffles rang through the crowd. Harry drew in a shuddering breath and cleared his throat as he picked up his glass of champagne and lifted it high. The guests followed suit.

“So!” His voice cracked a bit and he swallowed again—but, even then, it remained tight and gravelly. “To Ron and Hermione. May you live a long and happy life together… and eventually present me with loads of bushy ginger godchildren to spoil rotten.”

As the crowd echoed the toast, Hermione jumped from her chair and threw her arms around Harry’s neck, sobbing shamelessly and mumbling incoherent words against his shoulder. In spite of his best efforts, a few of Harry’s own tears escaped against her hair when Ron’s long arms wrapped around both of them. The three of them stood there, hugging and crying, and for those brief shining moments, Harry felt as if all was right in his world once more.

***

Using her fine linen serviette and a small mirror she’d transfigured from a spoon under the edge of the table, Ginny scrambled to dab away the streaks on her face. Make-up charms were better than Muggle products, but magic couldn’t always fight the forces of nature. The stupid git! Why’d he have to go and make everyone cry like that, especially when she was going to have to get up in front of the whole crowd in a couple of minutes and dance with him?

Ginny swallowed the rest of her champagne in a desperate attempt to wash away the bitter jealousy burning a hole in her chest. Harry’s speech had been beautiful. Absolutely perfect. And all too vivid a reminder of the tight circle that she’d been excluded from except on two rare occasions—and she’d had to fight her way into those. Most of their exploits she’d heard about second hand from one or the other of them, and for the better part of the only adventure that she alone shared with Harry, in the Chamber of Secrets, she’d been unconscious. For a while, that autumn after the war, she’d felt special, like she and Harry had formed their own private circle where she’d been the only one to share another, more personal, kind of experience with him. But, if the papers were to be believed, he’d quite publicly moved on and expanded his circle in that area, too—bloody Russian tart! And no telling how many others.

While her father was distracted by Mrs. Granger, Ginny grabbed his glass and gulped down the remainder of his champagne. And then Harry was standing by her chair, holding out his hand for her while Ron and Hermione waited at the edge of the dance floor. He looked a bit pale, but composed, and his lips were curled into a smile that wasn’t reflected in the stoic look in his eyes. Ginny closed her eyes briefly and gave a resigned sigh. Okay, fine. She’d always known this wasn’t his idea, that Hermione had wanted him on the dance floor with them and it would look silly for the three of them to dance together. Ginny knew she was only a means to an end. It still hurt.

She made a split-second decision to pretend it was all real—that he’d asked her to dance because he wanted to. Wasn’t that what they’d been doing all week? Pretending? She smiled sweetly at him and placed her hand in his, but when she stood, the champagne she’d just inhaled rushed to her head and she stumbled against him. His other hand came around to steady her, searing a brand on the bare skin of her back. She had only a second to register the hissing intake of his breath and then, somehow, they were facing each other on the dance floor as the music started.

Hermione had chosen some slow, sappy Muggle tune that wouldn’t challenge Ron’s rhythm too much—dance lessons hadn’t gone well—and the two of them were just swaying more or less in time to the music. But Harry was holding her in a traditional dance pose—one hand holding hers, the other resting lightly on her waist—and guiding her around with surprising ease, if not much flair.

“You’ve learned to dance!” she blurted before she could think. Champagne definitely shouldn’t be chugged.

He shrugged lightly. “I’ve improved a bit since the Yule Ball. But I shouldn’t show Ron up too much, yeah?”

Ginny looked at the other couple just as Hermione winced and laughed while Ron whispered hurried apologies into her ear.

“No, but it wouldn’t take much, would it?” Ginny giggled.

Harry actually gave her an almost-real smile before focusing over her shoulder again and slipping his mask back into place. He seemed to be concentrating hard on drawing measured breaths. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, Ginny realized with a start that her time was ticking away. If she was going to do this, she’d better do it now.

“You’re very good at this pretending thing, too,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “I mean, sometimes you actually fool even me into thinking that you want to be friends, and I _know_ it’s all pretend.”

Harry flicked a wary look of surprise at her before grunting out a humorless laugh. “Let’s just say I get a fair bit of practice. Although, it’s easier with people who don’t know me.”

Ginny stored that bit of knowledge away for later consideration and stuck to the task at hand. “But that’s the whole point, isn’t it?” She had to work to keep her voice steady. “We _do_ know you. You shouldn’t _have_ to pretend with us. We’re your family. Why are you holding everyone away?”

In an instant, Harry stiffened under her hand and his eyes shuttered. Others were joining them on the dance floor and he began steering her toward the edge. He’d be making his escape any minute. She had to hurry.

“I’m sorry,” she said and couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice. “I don’t mean to pry. I just… I just want you to know that you’re part of this family. You always will be and I… I promise, I won’t ever do anything to keep you away… to stand between you and the rest of the family. Just don’t disappear again. Please, Harry. I’ll…”

Ginny stopped when she realized they were standing still and Harry was staring in shock across the room, a look of delight blossoming in his eyes. “Hermione didn’t tell me they were coming,” he said, more to himself than to Ginny. He looked back down at her and murmured in stilted politeness, “Thanks for the dance. Could you excuse me, please?”

Ginny whirled in place to watch him weave his way through the other dancers and the guests still seated at tables to where Viktor Krum was towering over everyone at the back of the tent. A ripple of gasps and surprised laughter radiated out from the place where Harry had disappeared, and as the crowd shifted, Ginny joined in with a muted cry of despair.

A gorgeous, shapely brunette in a silver dress that fit like a second skin was wrapped around Harry like a Lethifold, trying to suck his lungs through his mouth. He definitely wasn’t fighting her off. Apparently his Russian tart had come to town.


	40. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry survives and Ginny lets go.

From the edge of the dance floor, Ginny stared in shock across the tent. Harry shifted the erotic kiss with that Russian tart into an only slightly less indecent embrace, then reluctantly peeled himself away to offer Viktor Krum a handshake and a “man-hug.”

Ginny had got it all wrong. Harry might still want a family, but he obviously wanted it with someone else.

Ice and despair ran through her veins as if Dementors had descended. Then, panic set in. She wasn’t going to be able to hold back the flood pressing behind her eyes and yet her feet weren’t following her brain’s command to run. She was going to melt down like one of Neville’s cauldrons right here in front of everyone.

“Don’t you _dare_ give them the satisfaction,” a deep voice rumbled in her ear as a pair of strong arms spun her toward a solid chest and wrapped around her, leading her gently back onto the dance floor. “Smile at me like you haven’t a care in the world,” the soothing voice ordered.

“Liam,” she gasped in relief and rested her forehead on his chest, ready to just let it all go.

“Ah, ah,” he admonished. “No tears, _a ghrá_. Not here. I’ll let you cry on my shoulder all you want later, when no one else is around to see, but right now, you stiffen that spine and smile.”

He was right. She couldn’t flaunt her weakness. Not here. Not now. She drew several deep, shuddering breaths and swallowed her emotions with determination, then tipped her head back to offer him a watery smile. “My hero.” He grinned and dipped his head in a mock bow as he twirled her into the small group of dancers. Their stance was all wrong for the music that was playing now, but Ginny didn’t care. She was too grateful to have someone to hold her upright. “Where did you come from?”

“Ireland,” he deadpanned without missing a beat, then smirked when she rolled her eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“Been here all along,” he relented with a smile. “I bowed out of the receiving line. You were too busy wondering where _he_ was to notice me.”

She winced and peeked up at him through her lashes. “Sorry. You never said you were coming.”

“Ah, well, my invitation just came in the post two days ago. I didn’t have a chance to say anything, now did I, what with you attending to the bride’s every whim this past week?”

“Guess not,” Ginny said, a thoughtful tone creeping into her voice. “Wonder what took the owl so long to reach you? The invitations went out weeks ago.”

“Dunno.” Liam gave a careless a shrug. “Maybe she decided the Isle of Man looked like a good place for a holiday along the way.”

Ginny couldn’t stop her grin as she swatted him playfully. “Idiot.”

He grinned back. “That’s my girl. We’ll put on a good show, yet.”

Ginny cast a glance over her shoulder to where Harry sat at the table with the tart draped over him like a silken cloak as he talked earnestly with Viktor. Liam swung her around so she couldn’t see.

“Watch me, not them. And smile.” His face softened as her eyes welled again. “I always wondered if he was the one who’d stolen your heart. I knew it had to be someone really special.”

Ginny blinked hard at the tiny shamrocks on Liam’s tie and nodded. “Yes, he’s special. He’s just…” She stopped and dragged in a gulp of air around the blockage in her chest. “He’s just not available anymore. Not to me, anyway.”

“Then he’s a bigger prick than I thought,” Liam murmured, pressing her cheek against his chest and wrapping both arms tightly around her to shield her from view, as if he knew that she needed a minute or two to pull herself back together.

The music had slowed again and Ginny leaned heavily into his familiar warmth, drawing strength from it. For a moment, she couldn’t recall why she and Liam had decided to remain just friends. Oh, yeah…

She lifted her head so she could look up at him. “How are things going with Siobhan?” Liam had been estranged from his long-time girlfriend for nine months before dating Ginny for a little more than a year. When he and Ginny had realized things weren’t going to work out for them, he’d got the courage to call Siobhan again.

The smile that broke out on his face rivaled the sun in its brilliance and his eyes glazed over with secret memories. “Just grand,” he murmured, more to himself than to Ginny.

“That’s wonderful.” Ginny tried to keep the wistfulness from her voice. At least things were going right for _someone_. A second later, the implication of his words hit her and she tried to step out of his embrace. “Wait! Where is she? She’s not going to hex me, is she?”

Liam laughed and pulled her back to him. “No, she’s not here. The invitation had only my name on it.”

“That’s odd,” Ginny said. “I know I told Hermione you’d got back together. I can’t imagine why Siobhan’s name wouldn’t have been included. At the very least, it should’ve said ‘Liam O’Leary and Guest’ on it.”

He shrugged. “No matter. She’s off shopping with her sisters. I’m going to catch her up later for dinner.” His smile grew wide again and he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “And tomorrow _we’re_ going shopping… for a ring.”

Ginny gave a little squeal and hugged him tightly around the neck. “Oh, Liam. I’m so happy for you!” And she found that she really was… if not so happy for herself. Liam would never have got away if she hadn’t been so in love with Harry.

“So, who’s the hag your man is wearing over there?” Liam asked with a wicked grin as he twirled her a bit faster to stay in tempo with the new song that had just begun.

“Katya Belova,” Ginny said without thinking. How could she forget, the way the papers had pounded it into the public consciousness for months and months like there was no other news worth reporting? She gave a small snort of disgust. “I reckon they’ll knock Ron and Hermione off the front page tomorrow. Anyway, I just call her the Russian tart.”

“Nah, that’s too good for her,” Liam said. “I think hag works better.”

Ginny couldn’t help grinning. “I didn’t realize you could be such a bitch, Mr. O’Leary.”

“Just lookin’ out for my own, darlin’. Just lookin’ out for my own,” he said absently as he sent an appraising look across the room. “So, have you met her?”

“No!” Ginny pursed her mouth into a moue of distaste. “And I don’t want to.”

Liam’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “What? But whyever not? She might be the smartest, funniest, nicest person on earth. How do you know she doesn’t spend all of her free time taking care of the homeless or developing the cure for Dragon Pox?”

“I don’t care. I just really hate her. I’ll think of a reason later.”

Liam’s belly-laugh drew amused glances from everyone around. “I think you’ve already got a brilliant reason.”

Ginny relaxed her face into a smile and pulled Liam’s head down to whisper in his ear. “Do you think anyone would notice if I used a Bat Bogey Hex on her?”

He shook his head. “Too obvious. Too many Muggles around,” he whispered back. “You need something more subtle. Hmmm… How about a tripping jinx? We could send her face-first into the cake.”

Ginny threw her head back and giggled with such glee that the dancers around them joined right in. “Liam, shame on you,” she said when she was able to talk again. “You never told me you were Slytherin.”

“Nope, Hufflepuff, me. Loyal to the bone,” he proudly exclaimed, then leaned back down to whisper in her ear once more. “I’ll do it, if you want… so it can’t be traced back to you.”

With a regretful sigh, Ginny shook her head. “No, we’d better not. Hermione would work it out right away, and Ron would be simply horrified at such a waste of good cake.” She raised up on her toes to kiss Liam’s cheek. “But thanks for making me feel better. I don’t know how I would’ve got through this without you.”

“I’m glad I was here to help.” He pressed gentle lips to her forehead, then turned her toward the edge of the dance floor, his mood suddenly light again. “You’ve worn me out, Harpy! Lead me to the bar!”

***

As much as Harry had hoped it would be so, George hadn’t lied—Ginny had a boyfriend.

Who currently had his hands all over her. In the bloody _middle_ of the dance floor!

When had that tosser shown up? And where had he been all week?

While they were dancing, Harry had been desperate to get away from Ginny before he did something idiotic, like kiss her senseless where they stood. He wasn’t really sure what she’d been prattling on about—something to do with the family—but her heady scent and warm bare skin, just the feel of her in his arms, so close but still out of reach, had set off an epic battle inside of his head that he’d been in grave danger of losing if he hadn’t turned tail and run. (He _had_ moved her off the dance floor before walking away, hadn’t he?) But, when he’d turned around again, that tosser had been groping her right out there in front of God and everybody.

Of course, Harry was well aware that, in his relief at escaping, he hadn’t tempered Katya’s typically enthusiastic greeting as he usually did. And, given the gasps of shock he’d only half heard and the looks of disapproval still coming his way, the show must have been extremely inappropriate. And he’d forgotten all about Creevey and his camera. He made a mental note to talk to Luna before the day was out; Merlin only knew what it would take to make those pictures disappear. But Ginny and her tosser seemed to be the only ones who were oblivious to the whole thing, all wrapped up in each other the way they were.

Squashing the urge to hex off the man’s bollocks, Harry tried vainly to focus his full attention back on the conversation with Viktor and Katya. His brain stubbornly refused to cooperate.

_Isn’t this what you wanted? To see her happy?_

_Yes._

_But only if it means she’s not with someone else._

_No…_

_Liar!_

“Viktor, you would be a gentleman and find me a drink, yes?” At the sound of Katya’s soft request cutting off Viktor’s droning litany of the latest on Dolohov’s activities in Bulgaria, Harry forced his thoughts back to their table. “I am certain they will not have good Russian vodka,” she added a bit petulantly. “But, perhaps a passable Cabernet Sauvignon?”

“No. Juice or Perrier is better choice,” Viktor countered with a slight challenge in his voice.

She immediately looked to Harry in appeal. He shook his head, trying to hold back a smirk. “I have to side with Viktor on this one.”

She turned back to Viktor and waged a silent battle with him for a moment before giving in with a pout. “Perrier, then, you brute.”

With a small, triumphant smile, Viktor stood and looked at Harry. “I should bring you something as well?”

Harry couldn’t help cutting a glance at the dance floor before nodding. “Yeah… just… whatever you’re having.” Viktor’s choice should be strong enough to get Harry past his usual obstacles with alcohol—if he had ever needed a drink it was now.

When Viktor was gone, Katya looked to where Ginny was still wrapped in that tosser’s arms, her hair dancing like flame as she threw her head back, giggling madly at something he’d said. Harry averted his face, wishing he already had a drink to sink into.

“She is the one, yes?”

“Who?” Harry deliberately ignored Katya’s meaning and refused to meet the sapphire eyes boring into him.

“Pfft! You do not fool me, Harry Potter. Always when you are with me, your thoughts are far away. Now I know where. Why do you sit here? He is nothing next to you. She would not choose him if you did not allow it.”

“She’s happy,” Harry said gruffly.

“And what of your happiness? Why should you not have what you desire? Do you wish I distract him, so you can—”

“And what would Viktor have to say about you ‘distracting’ him?” Harry blurted, grasping at the first opportunity to divert the conversation, but not questioning Katya’s ability to do as she suggested.

She grabbed Harry’s hand and waited until he reluctantly met her hypnotic gaze. Her voice turned low and intense. “Is no matter to Viktor. He accepts. To you I owe my life, my babushka’s life. He knows I cannot turn you away when you seek my comfort, my teaching. He would wish that I use my skills to help you in this also.”

Guilt twisted Harry’s gut. After the Polish raid that had set them back so badly—and after he’d run into Ginny at the children’s home—he had fled to the flat in Sophia to regroup and begin working new leads on Dolohov… at least that’s what he’d told Ingalls and Summers they were doing. But, in actuality, he had needed a place to get his head back together. Over the two years he’d known her, Katya had become his sanctuary, the one he turned to when he needed help thinking things through, the way he used to be able to turn to Hermione. But, Katya usually offered more of herself… literally. She seemed to feel most comfortable expressing her feelings physically—probably due to the Russian Ministry training her at fourteen as a seductress and spy. Over time Harry had come to accept that that’s just who she was. And sometimes, when he was especially low, he’d accepted the comfort she offered, never thinking that she had considered it his due. But this last time, he’d been there a couple of days before realizing that Viktor had become a bigger part of the picture. Not that it had surprised him, really—they had been moving in that direction for a while—although their news today had been something of a shock. And, as with Ron and Hermione, it changed everything. The twinge of guilt knotting Harry’s stomach exploded into full-blown mortification.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I never meant—”

“Do _not_ insult me so!” Katya spat at him, blue eyes glinting like ice before they melted into soothing pools and her silky palm cupped his cheek. “I give you my care, my heart, because you are good man, my Harry. I wish for you to be happy, to have your heart’s desire, and if that—” she sent a venomous glare at Ginny and said a Russian word that Harry didn’t understand but couldn’t mistake the meaning “—is what you want, you will have her. But she will not hurt you anymore. I will see to it.”

Suddenly weary, Harry gratefully accepted his drink as Viktor reappeared. He took a deep swallow and a moment to savor the burn down his throat, then picked up Katya’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Just let it go. She doesn’t… she can’t handle… what I do. She’d be miserable with me—and that would make me even more miserable. I’d much rather see her happy, even with someone else.”

She shook her head sadly. “My heart hurts for you. You, who save others, but have no one to protect you. I cannot stand by and watch your pain. I must do what I can to—”

“Katya!” Harry knew his tone was too sharp, but he really didn’t want to discuss this. He made an effort to speak more gently. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m fine. Just drop it. Please.”

Katya searched his face for another moment, then pressed her lips gently to his. “As you wish, my Harry. But, you must come to me when you have need of comfort. You should not be always alone.”

Viktor, who had been watching the exchange in stoic silence, nodded curtly in agreement.

“Harry, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Minister!” Harry jumped to his feet, a guilty flush warming his face at the twinkle in Shacklebolt’s eyes. “Oh, no, I just… erm, good to see you again, sir.”

“It’s Kingsley, Harry,” Shacklebolt said, then added in a teasing stage whisper. “None of that ‘Minister’ shite in private—especially in front of the Muggles.”

“Oh, erm, right.” Harry lowered his voice to a near whisper, too. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Shacklebolt’s smile took on a mischievous twist. “No worries. I’m certain no one heard. Your privacy ward is impressive, although I do seem to remember that we were asked not to use wands except in an extreme emergency.”

Harry’s color deepened—he’d forgotten the shield he’d put around the table when they’d started discussing Dolohov. “I, erm, didn’t use a wand, sir.”

Shacklebolt sent an eyebrow toward the crest of his smooth head. “Really. How interesting…” The twinkle in his eyes brightened. “…much like that little speech you gave. I do hope you have an escape plan ready.”

Harry grimaced and he couldn’t help the hopeful note that crept into his voice. “Actually, my plan was to Portkey out first-thing Monday morning so I wouldn’t be here when they got back from Italy.”

“Hmmm. A shame that plan’s not going to work. Did you have a back-up?”

Harry blew out a heavy sigh. “No, I’m rubbish at planning, anyway. I guess I’ll just have to wing it as usual.”

With a hearty laugh, the Minister slapped Harry on the shoulder. “You’ve always managed fine on the fly before. I have no doubt you’ll sustain only minor injuries this time, too.” He turned, then, and gave a small bow to Katya, who had remained seated. “I don’t believe, we’ve been introduced, Miss Belova. Kingsley Shacklebolt, at your service. I understand you helped our Mr. Potter out of a spot of trouble a couple of years back.”

Flushing darkly again, Harry cringed at his appalling lapse in manners. Making introductions was basic etiquette that Fleur had ingrained years ago—close proximity to Ginny had really muddled his brain. 

“I am pleased to meet you, Minister,” Katya said, lowering her eyes demurely as Shacklebolt brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “And my acquaintance with Harry has been… how do you say? Mutually beneficial?”

Shacklebolt’s eyes crinkled as he cut them at Harry. “Ah, yes, our Harry does have a little thing for saving people as well as a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t he? I trust your grandmother is well?”

Harry marveled at the Minister’s memory about the two-year-old details of his (as yet unproven) Russian Ministry break-in and subsequent extrication of Katya and her grandmother from the country. But then again, Shacklebolt _did_ have to intervene to prevent the scandal from becoming a full-blown international crisis.

“ _Babulyia_ is much improved,” Katya murmured. “Thank you for inquiring.”

“And, Mr. Krum,” Shacklebolt said, extending a hand to Viktor, who was standing by Katya’s shoulder. “A pleasure to finally meet you, as well. I’ve been a fan for many years. But you also had something of a hand in Harry’s… activities, did you not?”

Viktor shook the offered hand with a small, curt bow. “I was pleased to be of assistance.”

“Well, I won’t intrude on your visit any longer,” Shacklebolt said with a smile that encompassed all three of them before coming to rest on Harry. “But if your friends are available, Harry, you might invite them to our little tea party on Monday. They may enjoy the visit with the French Ambassador.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot into his fringe before he could stop them, but he nodded. “Yes, I’m certain they would. Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

When the Minister was gone and the plans for Monday were set, Harry sat and toyed with his half-full glass (he’d only been able to manage one swallow, after all) while chatting with Viktor and Katya and the few people who felt no need to work up their courage before coming over to speak to him—they were the only ones he wanted to see anyway.

He nearly didn’t recognize Professor McGonagall in her stylish skirt suit and wide-brimmed hat—for someone her age, she had pretty good legs… which Harry suddenly realized that he’d never seen before. She and Professor Flitwick, in his tiny suit and waistcoat and standing no higher than McGonagall’s hip, made an odd pair as they stopped by on their way out. Ron and Hermione had planned the ceremony for noon specifically to accommodate guests who needed to drop children off at Kings Cross or prepare for their arrival at Hogwarts. Sadly, the headmistress and Charms professor were the only two of the school faculty who had been able to make the wedding. After agonizing for weeks about inviting Hagrid, Hermione had decided that they just wouldn’t be able to come up with a believable explanation for his size; Harry had promised to share a Pensieve memory of the event with their oversized friend.

At some point in the afternoon, Luna wandered over in her usual dreamy daze. But Harry had only got halfway through explaining his concerns about the pictures before she jumped to her feet and floated across the tent to have an apparently friendly and uncharacteristically focused discussion with Dennis Creevey—who immediately cast a venomous glare at Harry. Creevey was obviously reluctant and decidedly peeved when he showed Luna the back of his magically-enhanced Canon professional digital camera and pressed several buttons. Luna’s misty smile returned as she patted her photographer on the back and wandered off. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, even as he felt a stab of pity for Creevey.

As if she’d sensed Harry’s need to talk to her, Fleur appeared, wending her way around the knot of people a couple of tables away, one arm curled protectively around the barely-visible bump beneath her shimmery sheath dress. Bill trailed behind, struggling with a cranky Victoire. With one of their number missing, the Triwizard Champions reunion was initially bittersweet, but after introductions were made all around, Fleur and Katya found a seemingly endless stream of “girl-topics” to discuss in French and the men fell into a friendly debate about various teams’ chances in the World Cup that was still a year away. Harry coaxed Victoire into his lap and distracted her into a better mood by wandlessly making the silverware dance on the floor behind the table, out of sight of the nearby Muggles. When the Weasleys got ready to leave, Harry pulled Fleur aside and asked her to transfer a hefty sum from his Gringott’s vault to Creevey’s on Monday—she was outraged, but, in her capacity as his publicist and financial manager, agreed that it was well worth the cost to avoid the guaranteed media frenzy and only a drop in the bucket to what the pictures would have been worth on the open market.

At an agonizingly slow pace, the afternoon turned into evening. Harry knew that he should get up and mingle, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the safety of their out-of-the-way table. He caught only fleeting glimpses of Ginny dancing with her tosser, her father and brothers, and the likes of Dean Thomas and Neville. But she mostly seemed to be staying on the opposite side of the tent, to Harry’s great relief. He rarely left his seat, except for a trip to the men’s and dances with Katya and Mrs. Weasley, after making certain that Ginny wasn’t already on the floor. When the evening buffet was laid out, Viktor secured fresh drinks and a heaping plate of hot hors d’oeuvres for them to share, which Katya tucked into ravenously. Harry was absently plucking apart a flaky pastry something-or-other when a rustle of satin and a neatly manicured hand on his arm broke into his thoughts.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I’ve been right here all afternoon, Hermione,” he said, standing to give her a hug and wondering why she’d only briefly acknowledged his tablemates.

“You weren’t here when Ron and I came over to speak to Viktor and meet Katya earlier,” she replied.

Oh. He rolled his eyes. “Sorry I didn’t do a better job of scheduling my trip to the loo.”

She sniffed in mock offense. “Well, I would’ve _thought_ you’d have come looking for me. You haven’t danced with the bride yet and we’re going to be leaving soon.” She leaned in and added in a whisper, “I’m ready to get out of these horribly uncomfortable clothes!”

“That’s loads more information than I needed, Hermione,” he said with a grimace, then swept into a formal bow and offered her his elbow. “My apologies for shirking my duties. Please allow me to make it up to you.”

Tipping her nose into the air, she took his arm. “I don’t know. After that little speech earlier and now this unforgiveable oversight, I do believe you have a lot of groveling to do.”

With the banter making his heart lighter, he led her onto the dance floor and pulled her smoothly into his arms, but his smirk quickly gave way to a frown of concern as she winced in pain. “Are you okay?”

“These bloody shoes,” she growled. “I told Mum I’d be miserable in such high heels all day but she insisted that the dress called for them. My Cushioning Charm wore off hours ago and I can’t use my wa—ooooooohhhhhh…” Her rant turned into a throaty moan and a look of total bliss washed over her face.

Harry put his hand back at her waist and gave her a cheeky grin. “Better?”

“Dear sweet Merlin, Harry, that’s _wonderful_! Tell me again why I married Ron instead of you?”

Harry made a show of looking all around. “Bloody hell, Hermione, don’t let him hear you say things like that. I don’t fancy a broken nose. I’m pants at wandless healing spells.”

One perfectly-plucked eyebrow rose to hide behind the rebellious curl that had escaped to dangle over her forehead. “Now, Harry. You know Ron would never break your nose.”

“You’re right. He’d hex my bits into oblivion.” When she broke into a fit of giggles—she’d obviously been enjoying the champagne—he feigned an injured look. “You think that’s funny? I rather like my bits as they are, thank you very much.” After her laughter subsided, he gave her an almost-serious look. “So. About this groveling…”

She rolled her eyes. “What? You think you can get back into my good graces with only a Cushioning Charm that you didn’t even have to concentrate to do without a wand?”

“I can always take it off again.” Waggling his eyebrows, he dropped his hand down to their sides.

“No!” she squeaked and huffed at him. “All right. Fine! Transgressions forgiven. But you won’t get off so easily next time.”

“I promise, I’ll grovel all you like next time.”

He executed a tricky dance move and, when he spun her back to him, she gaped at him openly. “Harry! You can dance! Where did you learn to dance?”

He gave her a lopsided grin and a shrug. “Katya. It was a lot easier to learn when I realized it would help with… my work.” He leaned in and whispered in Hermione’s ear, “But don’t tell Fleur.”

Hermione smiled at his joke, but her eyes remained serious. “You were wrong, you know.”

“Wrong about what?” he asked, honestly confused.

“What you said in your speech. I _don’t_ know all of your secrets. Not anymore.” A small crease formed between her brows. “I wonder if we ever really did.”

He stared back into her searching brown eyes—those eyes that had always seen him best. “You know me better than anyone, Hermione. Even if you don’t always _know_ my secrets, you know when I _have_ secrets. I can’t seem to hide anything from you.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Is that why you went away? So it would be easier to hide from me? From everyone?”

Harry couldn’t hold her gaze and shifted his eyes over her shoulder… straight to where Ginny was making her way out of the tent. At least she was alone. _Stop that!_ Harry closed his eyes and gave himself a mental shake. _It’s none of your business. Not anymore._

“Harry.” Hermione’s soft voice broke into his inner argument. “She’s not with him, you know.”

How did she _do_ that when she hadn’t even seen who he was looking at? Was he that transparent? And besides, even if that were so, it just didn’t matter.

“See? No secrets,” he quipped with a half-hearted grin before picking up the thread of their conversation again. “I’m not hiding. I’m working. Trying to catch Dark Wizards. It’s what I do, remember?”

Hermione scowled at the shift back to the original topic but, with a quick glance at the stubborn jut of his jaw, apparently decided not to press her luck. Reaching up to brush his fringe away from his scar, she smoothed a soft finger over it. “Voldemort’s gone, Harry. Let him go. Let yourself be happy.”

The music ended and he took a step back, but gave her a tender smile as he stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “It’s time for you to go on your honeymoon. You and Ron make each other happy. That’ll make me happy.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed until he thought he’d never breathe again. He clung to her like a lifeline, relishing the feel of her heartbeat next to his own. God, he missed her already!

“You’d better be here when we get back or I’ll chase you down and groveling will be the least of your worries,” she growled into his chest.

“I’ll be here,” he murmured. _For a little while._

***

Ginny picked her way through the dew-sparkled grass, holding her skirt high and trying to walk on the balls of her feet so her stilettos wouldn’t sink into the soft earth. She nodded a polite greeting to two women on their way through the lengthening shadows back to the tent, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found the ladies’s empty. The back door of the church had been left open so the wedding guests could access the facilities, but because said facilities could accommodate only one person at a go, she’d had to queue in the hallway the last two times she’d come.

As she refreshed her make-up charms, Ginny studied her face in the mirror. She’d nearly made it through the day, thanks to Liam. He’d been gone for a couple of hours now, but if he hadn’t been there in the beginning to tease her back into a semblance of sanity…

Ginny hadn’t been able to keep from watching Harry and his hag whenever she had a chance. Their initial exhibitionism had been over quickly, but she had seen them kissing one other time and mostly the hag just had her hands all over him while he talked with other people. He didn’t seem to mind in the least.

Ginny sighed as she unconsciously toyed with the invisible lightning bolt at her neck. She didn’t think he’d heard a word she’d said to him while they were dancing. Or, if he did, he either didn’t believe her or didn’t care. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever see him again after tonight.

The jiggling doorknob and a soft knock brought her back to Earth.

“Just a minute,” she called as she tucked her wand back into the hidden sheath Madam Malkin had sewn into the seam along her thigh—after the nightmare that was sixth year, she couldn’t bear to not have it close at hand. But when she opened the door, she wished she hadn’t put it away. Frozen at the sight of the last person she wanted to see face-to-face, Ginny was too surprised to resist when Katya backed her into the tiny room and shut the door behind them.

Up close, Ginny could see why men would be attracted—vivid blue eyes, creamy smooth skin, long silky hair the color of dark treacle, curves that made Ginny feel like a ten-year-old boy… an aura of sexuality that thickened and electrified the air. Hell, Ginny could see why _women_ would be attracted.

“You! You are the one who hurts my Harry. I will allow it no longer.”

The thickly accented words were like a slap in the face, snapping all of Ginny’s battle instincts to attention. She could argue only with the mistaken tense in the first part of the statement, so she latched desperately onto the last. “ _You_ will not allow it? What gives you the right to speak for Harry? He’s been part of our family much longer than you’ve known him. He’s not _your_ Harry.”

Ginny sidestepped, circling in the tight confines to keep from being trapped against the wall as Katya pointed a finger and advanced on her.

“He _is_ my Harry. _I_ am the one he seeks for solace. In _my_ bed he finds comfort.”

With a devastating crash, Ginny’s defenses crumbled. Despair swallowed her whole and bile filled her throat. She desperately fumbled behind her for the doorknob as Katya continued her verbal assault.

“He is good man, my Harry. He does not deserve the hurt you give.” Katya straightened and placed a hand low on her stomach as her eyes grew triumphant. “Before the spring arrives, my son will bear his name, and I will not—”

The blow hit its mark. Nothing that came after mattered. With a gut-wrenching sob, Ginny blindly jerked open the door and ran.

 _She’s having Harry’s baby. She’s having Harry’s baby. She’s having Harry’s baby._  

The words clanged in Ginny’s brain like a Bludger trapped in a cauldron. He was finally getting the family he’d always wanted, and, noble git that he was, he’d never leave the mother of his child. Ginny knew she’d lost him. Forever.

The pain became physical. She cried out, clutching a hand to her head as she ran, tripping in the dark on some unseen obstacle, barely regaining her balance in time to keep from landing face-first in the damp grass. Sucking in great gulps of air to hold herself together, she stumbled without thinking toward the tent. No! She couldn’t go back in there. Everyone would see. Everyone would know what a fool she’d been. And Harry was in there. She couldn’t face him again. Not now. Blindly, she veered off, to the darker shadows behind the church.

“Ginny, is that you?”

With a muted sob of relief, Ginny stopped short at the sweetest sound she’d ever heard—Hermione.

“I wondered where you’d gone off to. Come back in and help me with this dress, would you? I—what’s wrong?” As she finally got close enough to see in the twilight, Hermione’s eyes grew wide and fearful. “Ginny, what’s wrong? Have you been attacked?” She looked wildly around and reached for the wand in her hair.

The church door opened and, in a panic, Ginny yanked Hermione into the shadows by the hedge, putting a finger to her own lips to signal silence as she held her breath to quiet her harsh panting. When Katya had sashayed gracefully past and back into the tent, Ginny dropped her head onto Hermione’s shoulder and succumbed to the tremors she could no longer control.

Hermione guided her back into the church, to a small room lined with shelves holding haphazard stacks of books and papers and what appeared to be robes hanging on a rod along one wall. Settling Ginny on a large box with one squashed corner and several sheets of paper sticking out of one edge, Hermione locked the door then leaned back against it.

“What did she say to you?”

Closing her eyes, Ginny drew several steadying breaths. When she could finally speak, her voice was raw and halting. “She’s… she said she’s… she’s having… Harry’s…” Ginny stopped as her lungs forgot how to work and her throat closed over the words. She closed her eyes again in a vain attempt to catch the fat tear that escaped under her eyelid and pressed a hand to her mouth to contain her sob.

“That’s what she told you? Those were her exact words?” Hermione’s voice was calm but with a hard edge that hinted at the controlled anger beneath the surface.

Ginny put her trembling hand to her temple, trying to make sense of the chaos in her head. “Yes… No… I...”

“Breathe, Ginny.” The words were gentler and closer as Hermione crouched beside her. “That’s it. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out.”

The calming exercise that she’d learned during her struggles with depression worked its magic as Hermione rubbed soothing circles on her shoulder. When she was breathing more freely, Ginny looked up through her wet lashes.

“Better now?” Hermione asked with an encouraging smile.

Ginny nodded, still working to swallow the bigger part of her emotions.

“Now, think. What did she say? Exactly.”

Ginny closed her eyes again and tried to clear the mist of pain and confusion from the memory. “She… She said that I had hurt Harry and… and that she wasn’t going to allow it anymore. ‘My Harry.’ She kept saying ‘My Harry.’ It was infuriating! I told her that he wasn’t _hers_ , that he’d been part of our family longer than she’d even known him. Then she said…” Ginny had to stop and breathe again for a minute before she could croak out, “… she said he came to her… to her bed… for comfort and that… that… before the spring comes she… before the spring comes, her baby… her son would bear his name.” The final words came out as a breathy whisper.

“That bitch,” Hermione growled, wrapping her arms tightly around Ginny before pushing her back and giving her shoulders a little shake. “Ginny. Look at me.” She waited for Ginny to swipe at her face and raise her eyes. “It’s not Harry’s baby.”

Ginny’s eyes went wide. “But... she said... how do you... no, I’m...”

Hermione shook her head. “Think about the words, Ginny. _Her_ son would ‘bear his name.’ Not, ‘I’m carrying his son.’ It’s not Harry’s baby. I know this for a fact.”

The words held such conviction that Ginny clutched them desperately to her heart. If Hermione was certain, then it had to be so.

“Viktor told me this evening while we were dancing,” Hermione continued. “The baby is Viktor’s. They’re going to name it after Harry because he helped Katya get out of Russia and made it possible for her and Viktor to meet and be together.”

Ginny tried to bring order to her confusing thoughts. “But, why would she say it like that? Why would she want me to think that?”

Hermione sighed and motioned for Ginny to give her some room to sit on the box. “I don’t know. I guess this way, if Harry or Viktor found out, she could honestly say that she hadn’t told you a lie.”

“But, what if she’s lying to Viktor… and Harry… about whose baby it is? You saw the way Harry kissed her.”

Hermione shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. If she were trying to trap Harry, why would she tell Viktor it was his baby if it’s Harry’s? Not that I’m completely convinced that she wouldn’t take Harry over Viktor if she had the chance, but I don’t think that kiss was what it seemed to be. From some of the things Viktor said, I get the feeling that Katya isn’t necessarily who or what she appears, either. I have to wonder if she’s not a spy, or something close to it. Harry could very well be using her to help cover some of his own activities on the Continent.”

“Then why would she warn me off? Make me think that…”

“I don’t know.” Hermione’s voice sounded weary. “Viktor said she’s quite protective of Harry. Maybe she sees you as a threat, someone who’ll distract him from whatever they’re working on? Or… or maybe she really does believe you might try to hurt him.”

Ginny snorted. “Well she can give up the mother dragon routine. He’s protecting himself from me just fine on his own.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with sadness. “So, the dance didn’t go well, I take it.”

Ginny studied her fingers as they twisted into a knot in her lap. “That’s a bit of an understatement. He would hardly look at me, much less listen to anything I had to say.” Wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, Ginny leaned over and put her head on her knees. “Oh, Merlin, Hermione, I want him so much it actually hurts.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly as she put her arms around Ginny once more. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do, but he’s just… just…”

“Harry,” Ginny whispered, rocking back and forth a bit to try and ease the pain. “He’s just being Harry.”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered as she stroked Ginny’s hair. “As much as I hate to say it, I think we might have lost him. He’s retreated so far back into himself, I wonder if he’ll ever come out again.” The silence gathered around them, taking on an air of mourning. Hermione brushed back a lock of Ginny’s hair, so she could see her face. “Are you going to be okay? I hate leaving you like this. Maybe Ron and I should stay—”

“No! Oh, no!” Ginny jumped to her feet, hands to her face as she remembered where they where, what they were doing. “No, you have to go. This is your wedding day. Your honeymoon. Oh, I’m so sorry, Hermione. I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Oh?” Hermione raised an indignant eyebrow. “And who else would you talk to? What would you do? Just go off and bury yourself in a hole somewhere so that I’d come back and have to dig you out?”

Ginny flinched at the reference to the black hole of depression that had nearly swallowed her two years earlier. Hermione had been the one to dig her out then. And it was beckoning, now.

Stiffening her spine, Ginny looked Hermione straight in the eye. “No. I’m not going back there. I never want to go back there again.”

Hermione studied her a moment as if she were a particularly intriguing puzzle, then nodded. “Yes, I think you’ll be fine. I know you love Harry, but you’re more than that. Don’t base your whole world on him... that’s not fair to either of you.”

“I know,” Ginny murmured, wrapping her arms around herself to stave off the chill that rippled through her heart. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Just…” She stamped on her emotions with a heavy boot. “Don’t worry. You should go. Ron’s probably looking for you.”

Hermione gave her a wry grin. “Actually, I really _do_ need the loo. Can you come and help with this dress?”

Ginny’s grin was sad but determined. “Isn’t that my whole purpose in life right now? Come on. I’ll muscle you to the front of the queue.”

***

Harry stared for a long while into the dark where the car taillights had disappeared, feeling like a piece of himself had disappeared with them. Ron and Hermione were gone, off on an adventure and sharing a bond that he’d never be able to share. From now on, he was truly on his own.

He startled at the heavy hand that landed on his shoulder and had to click his wand back into its wrist-holder when he realized he was in no danger... well, not the usual sort.

“Harry, my boy, I hope you’re planning to come for lunch at the Burrow tomorrow,” Arthur Weasley said with a jovial grin.

“Yes, Harry, dear, we just won’t hear of you missing it,” Mrs. Weasley said as she came up on his other side and grabbed his arm. “We simply haven’t had a chance to visit properly and I can tell you’ve not had a decent meal in quite some time. You must come.”

Harry took a small step back to escape their hands, glad that he had a ready excuse. The last place he wanted to be was in a houseful of Weasleys, especially when Ginny would be there and Ron and Hermione wouldn’t. He gave them an appropriately sad look. “I’m really sorry, but Viktor and Katya are staying over and I, erm, offered for them to stay at my house.”

They had been planning to stay at the Leaky Cauldron, but after that Muggle bloke had tripped and dumped two plates of cake down the front of Katya’s dress (Harry was still trying to work out how he and Viktor had escaped unscathed and why Hermione had looked so smug as she patted her hair), he had decided that Kreacher could make a guest room usable in no time.

Harry felt a twinge of guilt as Mrs. Weasley’s face fell.

With a small frown in her direction, Mr. Weasley’s eyes sent a silent appeal to Harry. “You know your friends would be welcome, too, Harry. Please come. Molly won’t be fit to live with if she doesn’t get a chance to mother you a bit before you slip away again.”

The twinge blossomed into a full-blown Venomous Tentacula, but Harry was determined to stand his ground. He just couldn’t handle another encounter with Ginny or the onslaught of emotion being with the whole family would bring.

“I really can’t. I’m sorry. But I’ll come by another time before I leave. For lunch or tea, maybe.” It was a vague enough promise—one he might not have to keep if he could talk Shacklebolt and Robards into letting him leave on Tuesday… even if it would mean breaking his promise to Ron and Hermione.

Mrs. Weasley’s face brightened. “Breakfast! Let me fix you a proper English fry-up on Monday. You can come after Arthur has gone to work and we’ll visit, just the two of us. You be there at half-eight and I’ll have it all ready for you.”

The Tentacula began eating a hole in Harry’s gut and he couldn’t bring himself to wipe the hope from her face. This woman had been his surrogate mother for nearly half of his life. Breakfast wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Just the two of them? And he could escape before noon with the excuse of having to prepare for his meeting.

He felt the words leave his mouth before his brain had approved. “I suppose that would work. I’m not really expected at the Ministry before noon.”

The Weasleys beamed like bright sunshine. The Tentacula drove a blood-red spike into his heart. Merlin, he had to get out of this country!

***

Ginny had given up trying to sleep after only an hour and reached for the one drug that could help when she couldn’t think… or couldn’t stop thinking.

Flying.

For hours, she’d been racing the wind, diving, rolling, spiraling in death-defying plunges, rising and falling on the air currents, riding the endorphin high that was the only thing that could clear her mind and expose her calm center… seeking her “zone,” the way she’d done to survive her last few months at Hogwarts.

She slowed her pace as the indigo sky grew green at the edge and began its fade into periwinkle. The White Cliffs of Dover reflected the gold and peach of the sun’s approach as she set down on the grassy top to watch the new day appear.

_I know you love Harry, but you’re more than that. Don’t base your whole world on him... that’s not fair to either of you._

Hermione’s words had been whispering in the back of her mind all night and suddenly built to a great crescendo. As usual, Hermione was right. And with a painful twist, Ginny’s heart accepted the truth.

She didn’t want to be one of “those” girls, who built their whole identity around a man. And already, she’d spent far too much of her life waiting for Harry. Waiting for him to notice her. Waiting for him to destroy Voldemort. Waiting for him to come back to her. Waiting and waiting and waiting.

But the waiting was over. He wasn’t coming back this time. The time had come to finally let go.

With trembling fingers, Ginny fumbled with the clasp of her necklace and let the chain and pendent slide into her palm. A touch of her wand released the Disillusionment Charm. In the rays of the new sun, the silver lightning bolt glowed, promising power and hope and love that it couldn’t deliver.

Drawing a shuddering breath, she forced her fingers closed over it and held it to her heart for a moment… then flung it into the sea.

~~~

 _a ghrá_ = my love


	41. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the wedding over, Harry and Ginny try to get their lives back to normal, but reality refuses to cooperate.

The clink of silverware against china echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen, underscored only by an occasional murmured exchange and Bill’s increasingly frustrated attempts to soothe his whinging two-year-old. Of course, Fleur’s absence only made matters worse; pregnant and exhausted from the wedding, she’d stayed home.

Ginny could only wish _she’d_ had such a good excuse. Lunch at the Burrow was the last place she wanted to be. She’d seriously considered owling to say she was ill, but that would’ve brought Mum through the Floo with hangover potion and soup and far too many questions that Ginny didn’t even want to answer to herself. Her head hurt from too much champagne and too little sleep, and her heart ached for the part of it that now lay at the bottom of the English Channel.

The rest of the family was unnaturally subdued, the air heavy with dread as if they were all waiting for one of George’s products to explode in the middle of the table at any second. The only one who seemed unaffected by the somber mood was George himself, and his exaggerated good humor was becoming more annoying by the minute.

Ginny could feel the constant weight of everyone’s eyes on her as they talked in brief spurts about the wedding. After an hour, unable to bear their cautious pretense that they weren’t purposely avoiding discussion about Harry and his new “friends,” Ginny decided to meet her demons head-on.

She concentrated on grabbing a slice of bread from the tray in front of her and kept her voice casual. “I guess you couldn’t talk Harry into coming, huh, Mum?” She’d seen her parents talking with him after Ron and Hermione had left.

The room went still, bracing for the blast. Even Victoire grew abruptly quiet.

“No, dear.” Mum’s voice was carefully neutral. “He had guests staying over.”

“Ah,” Ginny said. No one asked who the guests were. “Percy, could you pass the butter, please?”

Ginny didn’t need butter. She needed her family to stop acting like she was going to crumble to pieces any minute. Even if she might.

“Did anyone see that Muggle bloke doing that wicked crazy thing on the dance floor there towards the end of the evening?” Everyone jumped at the chance to change the topic and urged George on in his wild tale, complete with expansive arm gestures. Ginny could tell that no one really cared—except maybe George.

She lasted until pudding had been served.

Setting her untouched plate of treacle tart—another reminder of Harry—into the sink, Ginny gave her mother a little squeeze around the waist. “I’m going home, Mum.” She couldn’t keep the weariness out of her voice.

Her mother put her hands on either side of Ginny’s face. “You do look peaky, dear. Do you need a hangover potion? How about some Pepper-Up?” The worry in her eyes made it clear she was inspecting for more than fever.

Ginny gave her a half-smile, grateful they weren’t alone; she could tell that Mum was just barely holding back on the questions she really wanted to ask. “I’ll be fine. I think I just need a nap. Do you have the jumpers ready for Madam Malkin?”

Something flickered in her mother’s eyes, but Ginny didn’t have enough brain cells working to think about what it might mean. “Oh, goodness me, no. With everything going on this week, I just haven’t had the chance. I was going to work on them this afternoon. Why don’t you come by in the morning? A bit before nine maybe… yes that would work… and I’ll have them all ready for you. I’ll even fix you some breakfast.”

Ginny sighed. The Burrow wasn’t exactly on her way to Madam Malkin’s. That was the whole point of bringing the jumpers home to her Diagon Alley flat on Sunday so she could take them down the street before heading to the children’s home Monday morning. But this _had_ been an unusual week. And “coming by” before nine wouldn’t put her too far behind schedule.

“All right, Mum. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Her mother pulled her into a hug and Ginny allowed herself to indulge in the comforting embrace. How she wished she were six years old again and still believed that her parents could hug all of her problems away.

***

By the time morning came, Ginny had memorized every crack in the ceiling in between her troubled fits of unconsciousness—they could hardly be called sleep. Bone weary, she numbly watched as the day crept in, chasing the purple-grey night into the corners and dancing off every surface until she had to pull the covers over her head to block out the glare. The clock on her night table chirped a cheery “ _Rise and shine! It’s eight o’clock!_ ” and repeated the greeting every seven minutes until she finally found the energy to knock it to the floor and drop her pillow over it. She heaved a heavy sigh at the muffled “ _Rise and shine! It’s eight-thirty-five!_ ”

With a growl, she pounded her fists on the mattress and fought back tears of anger and despair.

_Not again! I can’t DO this again!_

She’d been down this road before. She knew what she had to do… even if laying here and letting depression suck the life from her seemed like the simplest and most appealing course at the moment. No matter which direction she turned, things weren’t going to be easy, but she’d learned the hard way that taking the plunge into the darkness wouldn’t bring the peace that it promised… not unless she let it _literally_ suck her life away. And with her luck, she’d probably end up stuck in a miserable purgatory like Moaning Myrtle. The only way to real peace was at the end of the hard slog back up the steep hill she’d allowed herself to finally tumble down—and she knew she’d slip and have to cover the same ground over and over until she reached sanity again. Just thinking of the path ahead was exhausting… and she was already having trouble just getting out of bed.

With a groan she pushed herself upright at the edge of the mattress, propping her head in her hands with her elbows on her knees, dragging in gulps of air to help steady her emotions and build her energy. The cramp that ripped through the muscles low in her belly brought her fully awake. She pressed the heel of her hand into her groin and gritted her teeth until the worst of it had passed, then sent a scathing look at the calendar on the wall. Well, that would explain part of the emotional disaster that had been her week, even though she knew it hadn’t been completely to blame. Sometimes she really hated being a girl. She flicked her wand to cast the charm that would vanish the mess throughout the day, thankful to not have to deal with those crazy things Hermione had told her that Muggles had to push inside themselves.

“ _Rise and shine it’s eight-forty-two!_ ”

Ginny pointed her wand at the floor. “Reducto.” Even half-hearted, the spell reduced the clock and pillow to a pile of dust and mangled feathers. She snorted. “Yes, Ginny, you’re completely sane. Everyone blasts their alarm clock to oblivion in the morning.”

In the back of her head, Hermione’s voice began nagging about making an appointment with the Harpies’ Mind Healer, but Ginny had never spoken to anyone except Hermione about her heartache over Harry, and she wasn’t ready to start now. Perhaps she could talk Hermione into brewing the potion again, the one she’d created when they were at Hogwarts. Oh, wait—Hermione was on her honeymoon. Ginny dropped her head back into her hands with a moan. She’d have to find a way to get by on her own for the next week. Thank Merlin she was expected at the children’s home this morning and back at practice the rest of the week. Accountability would make it harder to slide _all_ the way back down… maybe.

Through sheer force of will, she pushed herself from the bed and into the bathroom to down a pain potion, splash water on her face, and swipe a cleaning spell over her teeth. She stared for a moment at her reflection in the mirror and blew out a tired breath. No make-up charms or potions in her cupboard could possibly fill in the dark hollows around her eyes or put a bloom back into her cheeks. The paparazzi were going to piss themselves with excitement.

Oh, well. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon.

Digging through the pile of clothes on the chair and dislodging most of it to the floor, she grabbed a once-worn—she gave it a quick sniff…okay, maybe twice-worn—Harpies’ practice jersey that had shrunk a bit from too many overdone drying charms and pulled it over her head. She had to suck in her stomach to fasten the pair of faded jeans with a frayed hole in one knee, then looked over her shoulder in the mirror to be sure her shirt covered the edge of the hot pink knickers and slice of pale skin peeking through the second hole just below the back pocket. It didn’t. Giving the tail of the jersey a useless tug, she yanked her hair into a messy ponytail, jammed her bare feet into her rattiest trainers, and pocketed her wand… then collapsed on the sofa in the sitting room to catch her breath.

Merlin, she was exhausted. The clock over the mantle said nine fifteen. Thirty minutes to get dressed and she didn’t even look presentable. The minutes ticked by as she rubbed her eyes and looked around. She was forgetting something… The jumpers. Where were the bloody jumpers?

The Burrow.

Ginny groaned. Mum was going to insist that she eat and take a potion and a nap and, Merlin, Ginny just didn’t have the energy for a row this morning. She slumped against the back of the couch and listlessly watched the second hand make four rounds before she could work herself up to move again. No sense putting it off. If she was going to make a trip to the Burrow, she needed to get going. Otherwise, she’d still be sitting here come evening.

Heaving herself up, she threw on a grubby jacket, grabbed a Muggle baseball cap she’d nicked from George, pulled her ponytail through the hole in the back, and tugged the brim low over her face, hoping that the shadow it cast would keep Mum from noticing how horrible she looked. In and out as fast as possible, that was the goal. With a couple of steadying breaths, she steeled herself to sound as normal as possible and dived into the Floo.

She stumbled only slightly at the other end. Keeping her head down as she brushed off the ash, she called, “Mum, I’m running late. Do you have the jump—”

Her throat closed as she looked up to find herself face-to-face with Harry. He was staring at her, fork poised halfway to his mouth, apparently as shocked to see her as she was to see him.

Mum rose from her seat next to him. “Oh, good morning, Ginny, dear. I’d forgotten you were coming. Sit down and I’ll get you a plate.”

“I’ve already eaten, Mum.” The lie slipped out with surprising ease, considering that her brain was otherwise occupied with screaming at her to get out—NOW! She jerked her eyes away from Harry to her mother. “Did you get the jumpers done?”

“Yes, dear, but sit down and have a cup of tea—”

“I really can’t, Mum. I’m late already. If you want me to come back—”

“No, no. No need to come back. Just sit down and talk to Harry for a minute while I get them.”

As Ginny watched her bustle from the room, realization set in. They’d been played. She cast a quick glance at Harry and ran her hands over her face as she retreated to the other side of the kitchen. He was standing by his chair, his breakfast forgotten.

Ginny risked another fleeting look then shifted her gaze to the floor as she crossed her arms and hunched back against the sink. “Sorry,” she croaked. “I, erm—I didn’t know.” She was fairly certain he’d worked it out, too.

“’S’alright,” he said, not giving anything away in tone or expression. “I’ll go.”

“No!” Ginny straightened and gave him a pleading look as she choked back the slightly hysterical note in her voice. “No, please. Stay. I won’t be here long and… please, don’t go. She’s really missed you. Maybe even more than Percy when he…” She swallowed and dragged in a thick breath. “I meant what I said, Harry. I won’t do anything to keep you away from the rest of the family. If… if it’ll help… while you’re here, I’ll stay away… so you can come and—”

“That’s ridiculous, Ginny. This is _your_ family.”

“It’s your family, too, you know. In fact, sometimes I think—” She closed her eyes and bit down on her tongue to stop the words from escaping— _they’d choose you over me_. Saying it out loud would be just too pathetic.

“You think what?”

How could he be so damn calm? She drew another deep breath. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. The point is I can come over anytime. You’re only going to be here a little while. I can stay away, give you a chance to come visit without…” She trailed off and shrugged, wrapping her arms back around herself and slumping back against the counter again to study the hole in the toe of her trainer.

He remained quiet, but she didn’t dare look up. The silence grew heavy before he finally broke it, his voice sounding ridiculously relaxed compared to Ginny’s jangled nerves.

“This is stupid. We’re both adults. I’d like to think we don’t hate each other.” It was an almost-question. He waited until she looked up and shook her head. “Exactly. So we should be able to at least be in the same room together. No need for us to go out of our way to avoid each other, right?”

She gave him a stilted nod, but couldn’t look up again.

“So,” he said, sounding slightly less confident. “Erm, the jumpers. What’s all that about?”

Ginny gave her feet a bitter smile. _Now_ he wanted to have a normal conversation. She ruthlessly doused the hope that tried to flicker to life. Merlin, she was tired.

With a tiny sigh, she looked up. “The jumpers like Mum makes us for Christmas. They’re all the rage. Madam Malkin can’t keep them in stock. I think Mum might be making more money than Dad now.” She gave him a wry smile. “And to think that we all used to make fun of them.”

“I never made fun of them.” His voice held a note of longing. “I always thought they were brilliant. I wore the last one I got until I caught it on a bramble last winter and the sleeve came unraveled.”

Ginny cocked her head, too fascinated with the wistful look on his face to remember she wasn’t supposed to be looking directly at him. “I’m sure she’ll make you another.”

“Here you are, Ginny, dear,” Mum said as she wrestled a large bag into the room. “I don’t have quite as many this week, but tell her I’ll do extras next week.”

Suddenly remembering where she was, Ginny jumped at her chance for a quick getaway. “You need to make a couple for Harry, Mum. He says his are all worn out.” As Mum’s attention shifted across the room, Ginny dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek and grabbed the bag. “Love you, Mum. Gotta run. Bye, Harry.” And with a panic-fueled burst of energy, she raced out the back door before they could stop her.

***

Harry strode through the Ministry Atrium like a man on a mission. He’d learned after the war that if he looked like he had somewhere important to go, people were less likely to stop him for pictures or autographs or answers to inane questions. He’d even used the trick during numerous undercover operations to get into places he never should’ve been able to breach—once, an armed guard had even held a door open for him.

But today his mission was just to keep everyone away before he exploded. Justifying the mass Confundus Charm at the lifts as a safety measure, he bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet during the interminable ride alone down to Level Two. He needed to hit something and he needed to do it NOW.

Ginny’s untimely appearance at the Burrow had been no accident. But his irritation with Mrs. Weasley was nothing compared to the fury he felt at Ginny’s boyfriend, the tos—no, the _bastard_. This just proved that Hermione was wrong about them not being together. Something _big_ must have happened between Saturday, when Ginny had looked so happy dancing in the bastard’s arms, and this morning, when she’d looked so… so… defeated. Harry’d had all he could do to force himself to wait a polite few minutes after Ginny’s departure before offering a weak excuse to Mrs. Weasley and Flooing straight to the Ministry. He had to keep reminding himself that it was none of his business, he’d given up his right to defend her, he had to stay out of it... even if every cell in his body was screaming for him to Apparate directly to the Harpies’ training facility and pound the bastard to a pulp. Hexes wouldn’t be good enough for him.

Once he reached the blessedly unpopulated Auror training room, Harry took only seconds to change into his workout clothes. He didn’t bother wrapping his hands or casting a cushioning charm on them before he drove his first punch into the heaviest bag. The pain felt good. He could focus on physical pain, unlike the hollow ache around his heart that sent his thoughts into chaos. The throb in his knuckles gave his mind something better to do, restored his concentration, instilled renewed purpose…

…helped him imagine Liam O’Leary’s face on the bag.

Yes, Harry knew the bastard’s name and more… so much more. On Sunday, when Katya had fallen asleep on the sitting room sofa after lunch and Viktor had carried her up to their room for a “nap,” Harry hadn’t been at all surprised to quickly find himself—without consciously deciding to go—in the Auror file room at the Ministry, pulling every clipping and scrap of information he could locate on O’Leary. He’d been hoping to learn something to discredit the bastard, anything that he could let slip to Ron or Bill, or even George, that would make them send the bastard running for the hills. But the only thing Harry had been able to find to complain about was the man’s age—eight years was just way too much older than Ginny. Otherwise, his record was squeaky clean: Hufflepuff in Charlie’s year from a small village just north of Dublin; two older brothers, both married; parents still living; Harpies’ equipment manager for more than ten years. But no criminal record or suspicious activities. Not even so much as a citation for underage magic or a Statute of Secrecy warning.

But the bastard would _not_ get away with hurting Ginny. The empty training room echoed with the thud of knuckles on leather, beating an increasingly frenzied rhythm. Harry would find _something_ … _do_ something. If he couldn’t make her happy himself, he could do his best to make sure that no one else made her _un_ happy.

“You’re gettin’ blood all over the bag.”

Harry just grunted at Summers’s silent approach and casual observation. It wasn’t _that_ much blood, not for as long as he’d been pounding—not nearly enough to matter yet. He pummeled a quick one-two combination into what would be O’Leary’s stomach, sending the bastard-stand-in swinging in a wide arc.

Summers moved around to steady the bag. “So, what’s pushed you ‘round the twist? You looked like you were getting on just fine with her in _The Quibbler_ pictures.”

Harry sent his fist into the bag hard enough to make Summers grunt. “Shut it. You weren’t there.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.” Summers’ voice dripped with sarcasm. “My only chance to attend the second biggest event of the century and you tell Robards that I need time off to spend with my family.”

“You did.” Harry didn’t look up or break his rhythm, latching, without thinking, onto the alternate topic as a diversionary tactic. “Why the _second_ biggest event?”

Summers grinned cheekily. “ _Your_ wedding will be the biggest. And I’d better get an invitation, not just a work assignment.”

Harry clenched his teeth and growled as he threw two more punches, “Don’t look for it _this_ century.”

Summers’s voice grew soft and serious. “So what _did_ happen? You know she wants you. Why didn’t you just—” Without flinching, he threw up an arm to block the blow Harry aimed at his jaw. They held the pose, arm-to-arm, as Summers’s sky-blue eyes turned glacial and his voice took on a razor edge. “Get it out of your system, Potter. Shag her, cut off your balls, do whatever it takes. I’m not going back into the field with you until you get this under control.”

Harry remained still, meeting the icy glare with equal frost, breathing raggedly through flared nostrils. When it became clear that neither of them were going to back down, Harry shoved his blocked arm hard enough to send Summers stumbling back a step, then bent over with his hands on his knees and tried to calm his wild breathing and racing heart.

“Can you take Katya and Viktor to lunch before the meeting?” Harry gasped without looking up. “They’re at my place.”

After a moment, Summers snorted and walked away. “Get it sorted, Potter,” he called over his shoulder. “I meant what I said.”

***

By the time Harry strode confidently into the Minister’s conference room, he’d beaten his emotions into submission and donned his freshly pressed Auror robes and best mask of polite interest. He wasn’t startled at the tingle of magic that ghosted his skin as he passed through the door, indicating a secrecy ward, but he nearly drew his wand when Katya grabbed his hand almost before he’d got into the room.

With a worried frown, she studied his purpling knuckles—he’d healed them only enough to keep the blood from oozing—then brought them to her lips. “You are well? What has happened?”

Raising a single eyebrow at Summers, who responded with a careless shrug, Harry fixed on a smile for Katya and gently reclaimed his hand. “I’m fine. Are you feeling better?” 

She narrowed her eyes and raised her chin, obviously ready to argue, but bit down on her words when Minister Shacklebolt ushered in the French Ambassador followed by Robards, who locked the door behind them.

Shacklebolt smiled broadly and threw his arms wide. “Ah, good! We’re all here. Allow me to make introductions.” He bowed slightly and gestured toward the ambassador. “May I present French Ambassador Alexandre Vallière, who instigated this gathering. Ambassador, I am pleased to introduce Viktor Krum, best known as Seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team who has also served his country for many years in… shall we say, less obvious capacities…” Shacklebolt gestured toward Katya, “…as does, more recently, Miss Katya Belova, his fiancée.”

At the Minister’s last word, Vallière’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and he cast a questioning glance in Harry’s direction.

Shacklebolt chuckled. “Harry, it appears that your cover is still intact. Explanations in a moment, Ambassador.” Shacklebolt introduced Robards, Ingalls, and Summers, finishing with a grand sweep of his arm toward Harry. “And, of course, you all know Auror Harry Potter, who, it seems, has a knack for bringing people together in whatever cause he finds himself fighting.”

Harry dipped his head in acknowledgement and forced himself to remain still under their scrutiny. The Minister’s words and tone nudged awake the feeling of dread he’d got when this meeting had been set during the party for Ron and Hermione. Something was brewing, and Harry was beginning to suspect he might be the main ingredient.

Joining the migration to the conference table, he deftly chose a seat between Summers and Ingalls on the side of the table closest to the door, where escape would be more accessible. Shacklebolt settled comfortably at the head of the table, between Ingalls and Vallière. Harry refused to meet Katya’s concerned gaze as she sank gracefully into the chair across the table, between the ambassador and Viktor. Robards took the remaining chair at the other end of the table, sending his three Aurors a look that said he would tolerate no missteps in protocol.

“Thank you for coming.” Shacklebolt called the meeting to order with no preamble, his affable host persona seamlessly morphing into no-nonsense minister. “I trust that everyone knows why we’re here and that anything said in this room is to be held in the strictest confidence. However, I’m certain that you also noticed that I had taken the liberty of setting a Secrecy Shield at the door. Until such time as we have determined the best course of action, no one will be able to disclose the names of the other participants at this table or discuss the nature of our conversation with anyone outside of this meeting.” He directed his gaze toward Katya, Viktor, and the ambassador. “Is this agreeable?”

At their nods, Shacklebolt looked at Robards. “Any concerns?”

“You’ve heard my concerns.” Robards’s voice was tight, as if he were struggling for control.

The dread in his stomach rising like yeast bread, Harry tried to identify the fleeting flicker in Shacklebolt’s eyes before the Minister gave a curt nod. “Let’s proceed, then. Ambassador Vallière, please share the information you reported to me last week.”

As Harry had expected, Vallière outlined the mysterious disappearance of the village on the border with Switzerland, then added more information. “We ’ave also seen evidence of increased black market activities and illegal potions sales throughout our country, some of which ’ave begun to seep into Muggle areas. Of course, the Muggles believe the potions to be a new narcotic distributed by their drug dealers and, so far, our security teams ’ave been able to minimize the damage by administering antidotes and modifying the memories of law enforcement officers and ’ealth care workers as necessary. But our Minister fears that the infiltration will eventually pose a major threat to the International Statute of Secrecy, especially because the ministries in Switzerland and Italy are reporting similar activities.”

Harry tried not to squirm in his seat. Why was he sitting here in a dull meeting when he should be out there trying to contain Dolohov’s network? He could almost smell the evil wafting across Europe like a poisonous fog growing thicker by the moment. He had no doubt that Dolohov’s goal was to seep back into Britain, and if they didn’t get moving, they wouldn’t be able to dispel the miasma in time.

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Shacklebolt said, then turned toward Harry’s side of the table. “Gentlemen, your thoughts on this report as it relates to your investigations, please.”

Summers and Ingalls both looked at Harry, but he gestured for Ingalls—the senior Auror in their group—to serve as spokesman. With an irritated grimace that Harry ignored, Ingalls began to describe what they’d learned of Dolohov’s motives and methods as well as their efforts to gather intelligence, infiltrate the network, disrupt operations, and capture Dolohov and his deputies. He included the tale of Katya’s “extradition” from Russia and the critical roles she and Viktor had played in helping to gather information and providing their team with a convincing cover for their presence in Eastern Europe. 

Summers, Viktor, and Katya added their thoughts and comments freely, but Harry remained mostly quiet—he couldn’t call too much attention to himself or they’d never let him out of here. Tracing the flowing patterns in the wood grain on the table with his eyes, he contributed to the discussion only when asked a direct question. The recitation of dates and places and numbers was mind-numbing and revealed little of the terror and despair felt by the people Dolohov was destroying. Harry’s anger began to smolder; he flexed his hands in his lap, using the ache in his knuckles to relieve the building pressure. All of his willpower went into resisting the urge to stand and shout that they all seemed more concerned with making politicians look good than protecting people, otherwise, more resources would’ve been offered two years ago and Dolohov wouldn’t have gained such a foothold.

“Now,” Shacklebolt said, turning again toward Harry’s side of the table. “Tell me about working with the other ministries. No formal cooperation agreements related to this investigation have been formed with any of the countries where you’ve been working, but I know that you sought assistance from local ministries before conducting your raids. How did you handle that?”

Ingalls glanced at Harry, asking silently if he wanted to speak. When Harry simply returned his gaze, Ingalls gave an exasperated shake of his head and took up the tale again. “At first, the Bulgarian Ministry—” he gave Viktor a grateful look “—opened most of the doors, since we were moving into countries that were their allies. But after a few months, our leads took us into new territory, erm…” he shot Shacklebolt an apologetic look “…without permission. Each time we were able to capture some of Dolohov’s minions, we would pick up snippets of information about other bases in the network—not a lot of information… none of the minions seemed to know much about anything but their specific assignment. We think the deputies know more, but we haven’t been able to capture any of them alive.”

Harry couldn’t stop the small growl that rose in his throat. The frustration was still too fresh. They’d had Rowle within reach, only to have him snatched away by an over-eager Polish Auror’s killing curse; two years’s worth of intelligence-gathering had gone up in a green flash. Harry flexed his sore knuckles again.

“For the most part,” Ingalls continued, with only a slight pause at Harry’s interruption, “we would enter a new country undercover and gather as much information as possible through informants, surveillance, and sometimes infiltration. Most of the time Dolohov’s operations were too big for just the three of us to attack effectively, so once we felt we had sufficient evidence, we would approach the head of that country’s law enforcement division. A few times they checked out our story, thanked us for our help, and followed up on their own—we tagged along under Disillusionment Charms to offer assistance, if needed. A couple of times, however, Dolohov had got in ahead of us and bribed enough people to keep his operations safe. One of those times we were threatened and dismissed, so we located the local resistance movement and worked with them. The other time, we were detained and had to take, erm… fairly drastic measures to secure our release and cover our tracks. Oh, no worries,” Ingalls interjected at Shacklebolt’s frown. “No one was hurt, but let’s just say their memories are… a bit short.”

Summers snorted while Harry worked to keep his face blank. That had been the week he’d perfected his wandless Confundus, but no one here needed to know that, if they didn’t already. Robards looked ready to begin his own interrogation, but he snapped his mouth shut with a scowl when Shacklebolt held up a hand towards him and motioned for Ingalls to continue.

“Of course, by the time we were able to follow up again, the operation we’d found had disappeared… almost literally. The village was completely deserted, with food half-cooked in the central kitchen and laundry on the lines, as if they’d all been snatched away unexpectedly. We had no choice but to search for a new lead.”

Harry’s hands were moving constantly beneath the table now, but the ache was no longer enough to relieve the pressure building in his chest. How could everyone sit here so calmly, discussing such devastation like it was the weather? He bit down on his tongue and worked to keep his expression calm. If he interrupted now, he would only drag this meeting out, although he wasn’t sure he’d make it to the end anyway. He forced his attention back to Ingalls’s voice.

“But most of the time, we were able to work _with_ the ministries after we’d made our case. Some of them even allowed us to lead the raids, once they understood how well we knew Dolohov’s operations.”

“And who on your team took the lead in negotiating these liaisons?”

Harry’s gut tightened at Shacklebolt’s quiet question. When Ingalls turned his head to look at Summers, Harry knew a split second before they spoke that they were going to sell him out.

“Potter, sir,” they said almost in unison.

“No!” Harry couldn’t help the explosive tone of his voice. “We’re a team. We all had a part in convincing them.”

Shacklebolt ignored him and looked between Ingalls and Summers. “So, Auror Potter used his name and reputation to persuade the ministries to cooperate?” Something in Shacklebolt’s tone told Harry that he already knew the answer to his question.

“No sir,” Summers said, studiously avoiding Harry’s venomous glare. “We tried to convince him that we’d have an easier time making our case if he would, but except for our visit to Russia, Potter was under the influence of Polyjuice Potion almost the entire time we were in the field. Ingalls and I were the only ones who knew who he really was.”

“Ah,” Shacklebolt said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers under his chin. “So Auror Potter’s leadership skills have proved to be more than fame-based myth, correct?”

“Absolutely,” Ingalls said, flashing an apologetic smile at Harry; Harry didn’t return it. He had all he could do to remain seated. “In fact, as the senior member of our team and a former member of the Auror training faculty, I have been impressed with Potter’s ability to inspire others to take up his cause. He can piece together leads from the most scant bits information, then formulate a course of action that has almost always led to either more information or direct contact with one of Dolohov’s encampments and numerous valuable captures. Potter keeps a cool head under pressure and has an uncanny ability to continually reassess situations on the fly—a talent that has been instrumental in bringing teams as large as fifty through successful operations or, when things started to fall apart, to safety. In addition to honing his leadership abilities, he has worked hard over the past two years to master basic law enforcement skills as well as advanced spells and procedures that would be well beyond many seasoned Aurors, much less someone who did not finish even his first year of training. I find him—and Auror Summers—sufficiently accomplished to recommend them for promotion.”

When Ingalls finished speaking, Shacklebolt looked down the table at Robards, who gave a curt nod. _Wait!_ Had Robards just approved Ingalls’s recommendation… without an argument… in front of witnesses? That couldn’t be right. Could it? Harry was too stunned to react.

Turning once more to the ambassador, Shacklebolt smiled. “I believe you have brought a request from the French Minister that you’d like to share with our group.”

Vallière gave him a hopeful look. “Yes, I have. Minister Chevalier, along with the ministers of Switzerland and Italy, extend to you their support and resources, primarily in the form of experienced security forces. They propose that our countries form a multinational team to combat this threat, and of course we may be certain that others will wish to join once it is known that Mr. Pot—”

“No!” The word was out before Harry could snatch it back, but he knew what they were about. He couldn’t passively let them turn him back into a Ministry show dog to attract new allies while they handed the chase for Dolohov over to someone else. At the ambassador’s startled look and Shacklebolt’s frown, he forced back the panic clawing at his gut and cleared his expression. “My... my apologies, Ambassador. I... I, erm...”

“Ambassador.” Shacklebolt smoothly drew everyone’s attention away from Harry. Well, almost everyone; Robards didn’t break his unnerving glare even as the Minister continued speaking. “We are greatly honored by this display of trust and I am certain we can formulate a plan that will rid our world of this growing threat.” Shacklebolt stood and everyone followed suit. “Please convey our appreciation to your minister and let him know that I will be in touch before the day is over to set a meeting with him and the other ministers at our earliest opportunity.” With a slight bow, he shook Vallière’s hand and showed him to the door.

Once the ambassador was gone, Shacklebolt returned to the table and bowed again to Viktor and Katya. “I thank you for your willingness to be part of this meeting. Your insight and assistance has been invaluable. But now, I have some further business to discuss with my Aurors and so I must ask that you excuse us for a while. I do hope, however, that you would be so kind as to join me for tea before your Portkey activates this evening.”

Katya moved around the table and gave Ingalls and Summers brief hugs before wrapping her arms tightly around Harry’s neck. When she pulled back, her eyes were filled with concern. “This is right, my Harry. Do not allow your pride to stand in your way.”

Anticipating the confrontation to come, Harry didn’t try to puzzle out the cryptic comment, but dropped a kiss on Katya’s cheek and returned Viktor’s stoic handshake before Shacklebolt began ushering them toward the door. “My assistant will show you to my sitting room and I’ll be along shortly. Thank you, again.”

As the door clicked shut, Harry had the feeling he wouldn’t be seeing them again for a while.

“Please, be seated, gentlemen,” Shacklebolt said as he took his chair. Robards moved around to sit directly across from Harry and fixed him with a piercing stare.

Not bothering to pull his chair in, Harry sat on the edge of his seat, resting his forearms lightly on the table and bouncing his leg underneath. Something big was up and everyone else seemed to know what was coming. He needed to be able to move quickly if this went the way he thought it was going to.

“Planning on joining us anytime today, Potter?” Robards growled.

Harry shot him a look that should’ve crumpled him in pain. Robards just cocked an eyebrow.

“Harry,” Shacklebolt said soothingly. “Relax. Hear us out.”

The gentle rebuke called Harry’s attention to his agitated posture; he made an effort to quiet his roiling emotions and slip into his familiar armor of cool confidence. But the Minister’s words also confirmed his suspicions. He couldn’t give them any excuse to put a leash on him, to keep him from tracking Dolohov. This was _his_ case, damn it! He’d quit and go out on his own before he’d give it up. It wouldn’t be the best scenario—he’d rather have the backing and resources of the Ministry—but he’d do it if he had to. He wondered fleetingly if he could convince Summers to join him…

“I think we can all agree—” Shacklebolt’s “minister voice” pulled Harry back into the room “—that Dolohov has become much more of a threat than we originally anticipated. His activities now cover more than a dozen countries and are rapidly moving into the Muggle realm.”

With Herculean effort, Harry swallowed back the urge to rant at the blatant understatement. He’d been warning of this outcome for years. Why had they waited until things were so out of control?

As if in answer to that unvoiced frustration, Shacklebolt continued. “When Dolohov’s efforts were confined to Britain, we were able to meet them head-on. But when he moved beyond the boundaries of our allies, our hands were tied.” He gave them a wry smile. “Which is how you ended up as more or less a rogue team. Even though we couldn’t _officially_ support your activities, Robards and I have been monitoring the situation. Each time you secured a liaison with a ministry and conducted a successful raid, I followed up, trying to form some sort of alliance—either specific to this case or a more broad-based formal agreement.”

Harry couldn’t control his gasp of surprise. Why hadn’t anyone seen fit to tell him this?

“Unfortunately,” Shacklebolt went on, “the Eastern European ministers are suspicious by nature and many of them blamed us for allowing Dolohov to infiltrate their countries in the first place. They seemed to think that because we had let him escape Britain and then allowed the one person who _should_ be able to stop him—the Man Who Defeated Voldemort—to virtually disappear from the face of the earth, we had violated a sacred responsibility to protect the rest of the world and, therefore, weren’t to be trusted.”

“I’M NOT THE BLOODY SAVIOR OF THE UNIVERSE!” Harry jumped from his chair and stared around the table, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. “I’m doing the best I can!”

At Harry’s outburst, Robards had risen, too, wand drawn. Shacklebolt waved him back down and spoke quietly to Harry. “Yes, _we_ know. But the other ministers don’t. And we couldn’t break your cover, now could we? Please. Sit. Let me finish.”

Harry eased back into his chair, all pretense of calm forsaken. Robards placed his wand on the table in front of him. Ingalls and Summers carefully looked anywhere but Harry’s direction. Harry snorted. No question about it, they had all talked this over quite thoroughly while he was involved in wedding activities. The traitors.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. When all eyes were back on him, he continued.

“When Ambassador Vallière approached me with the report of the activities in his country and suggested the possibility of an alliance, naturally, I jumped at the chance. This case has long since become too big for just the three of you, even for Great Britain alone. We need to put more wands in the field and this is our best opportunity to do it. The more countries we can get to join us, the better our chances of closing the net on Dolohov and shutting down his network. But Harry, whether you like it or not, your name and reputation are critical to making this multinational effort work.” Shacklebolt held up a hand and shot a warning look down the table to silence Harry’s interruption.

“The expectation from Chevalier and the other ministers is that you will front this alliance, lead the charge, serve as a rallying point. And based on my earlier contacts with the Eastern European ministries, we also anticipate that your involvement could help draw in many of the countries where Dolohov is well entrenched. Harry Potter, Vanquisher of Voldemort, _must_ be at the forefront of this multinational strike force or it will, at the very least, be severely crippled, if not doomed to failure, before it even begins.”

“What, then?” Harry sneered. “I’m supposed to give up more than two years of work and calmly return to being your Ministry mascot while someone else takes over tracking Dolohov? Thanks, but I’ll pass. I had enough of being put on display like some prized stallion after the war. I need to be in the field. I need to be _doing_ something, not just parading around, putting on a show—”

“Harry!” Shacklebolt raised his voice only enough to cut into Harry’s escalating rant. “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to be a figurehead. I’m asking you to _lead_ the multinational team.”

Harry gaped at him for a full minute. “You want me to _lead_ the team,” he repeated slowly as if trying to make sense of the words. “ _Lead_ the team. What does that mean, lead the team? Conduct meetings? Shuffle paperwork? You’re still saying I’ll be chained to a desk, aren’t you? I sat on the task force when we first started this case and it was absolute bollocks!” Harry knew he was starting to babble, but he couldn’t stop. “And besides, what do I know about leading a multinational team of experienced battle wizards? You heard Ingalls. I didn’t even finish my first year of training. I’m twenty-one. Who’s going to do what I say? Why not let Robards lead it? Or Ingalls? He knows as much about the case as I d—”

“ENOUGH!” Robards slammed his hand down on the table making everyone jump. “If you’ll shut your yap long enough, we’ll explain.” Harry blinked and closed his jaw with an audible snap. Robards nodded with a grunt of approval. “I think we established your leadership abilities an hour ago—people will listen to you because you’re Harry Potter.” Harry rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to protest; Robards glared him into silence. “The Minister and I agree that putting you in charge of this strike force is the best strategy, both politically and functionally. The other ministers expect it. This has been your case from day one and you’ve got the drive and the desire to see it through. I have an Auror Division to run and Ingalls has submitted a request for a leave of absence and transfer back to the Training Academy after that.”

At the admission that Robards was in favor of this move, Harry’s jaw had dropped open in shock, but the final news chased all other thoughts from his head. He sent a look of betrayal at Ingalls.

With a weary sigh, Ingalls gave him a sad, apologetic smile. “I was going to tell you right after this meeting. I’m tired, Harry. I’ve been doing fieldwork for sixty-one years and these last two have done me in. I just can’t keep up anymore. I want to spend a few months getting to know my two youngest grandchildren and getting reacquainted with my wife. Then, I’ll go back into the training room and teach the youngsters what they need to know to keep from getting killed in the line of duty. You understand, don’t you?”

Unable to speak, Harry nodded as he choked back the unexpected emotion that rose in his throat. Ingalls was more than just an Auror partner; he’d actually become the father figure that Harry had been so annoyed at him for trying to portray over the years. The thought of their team breaking up had never occurred to him, and Harry realized that he was going to miss the three of them working together far more than he’d ever expected.

He whirled to face Summers. “What about you? Are you finished, too?”

“What? And let you have all the fun? Not a chance! You just try to get rid of me.”

The familiar cheeky grin was like a lifeline in a stormy sea. The waves of panic crashing at the walls of Harry’s chest subsided a bit, leaving behind only a churning whirlpool of anxiety.

“So, Harry, can we count on you?”

Shacklebolt’s quiet words brought Harry back to the challenge at hand. He still had a decision to make.

If the decision was really his.

He straightened in his chair and directed an unwavering stare at Shacklebolt. “Do I have a choice? A _real_ choice? What happens if I say no?”

Robards pounded the table again with a growl. “I _told_ you this would happen, didn’t I? Didn’t I say he’d—”

“Robards!” Shacklebolt’s hard voice brooked no further argument, but his lips tipped into a politician’s smile as he turned toward the other side of the table. “Ingalls, Summers. Would the three of you excuse us, please? I think Harry and I can take it from here.”

Robards slammed the door open and stomped from the room. Harry couldn’t help but smile at Summers’s waggled eyebrows and thumbs-up sign as he quietly closed it behind them.

“He hates me. Robards, I mean,” Harry said pensively as he turned back to Shacklebolt with a wry grin. “You don’t suppose he was in love with my mother, too, do you?”

Shacklebolt chuckled. “He doesn’t hate you. He just thinks you’re not living up to your potential.”

Harry snorted.

Shacklebolt’s smile turned a bit wicked. “And he sees too much of himself in you.”

With an involuntary bark of laughter, Harry gaped at him. “You’re having me on.”

“No. At your age, he was just as headstrong and idealistic with exactly the same tendency to jump into action. He goes quite barmy whenever I point it out to him.”

“That’s just…” Harry shook his head in disbelief and gave a melodramatic shudder. He respected Robards’s skill and reputation as an Auror, but Harry decided then and there that he’d do his best not to become a grouchy, barmy bastard as he grew older. Then he smirked at himself; some people might say he’d already become one.

“So.” Shacklebolt leaned his crossed arms on the table and fixed Harry with a thoughtful gaze. “I believe you had some questions.”

The inviting tone only restored Harry’s anxiety. Unable to sit still any longer, he popped out of his chair and paced to the far end of the room, then turned, arms by his sides, hands flexing, as if preparing to duel.

“You’re going to take me off the case, aren’t you? If I don’t do this?”

“No.”

The simple word stilled Harry’s agitated movements. It was the last thing he’d expected the Minister to say and he couldn’t get past it far enough to form another question.

Shacklebolt seemed to understand because he calmly continued. “You and Summers would be allowed to participate as one of the Auror teams committed by our Ministry. But…” He let the word hang for a moment until Harry took an involuntary step forward.

“But?”

Shacklebolt gestured toward Harry’s chair and waited until he sat gingerly on the edge again. “But… you’d have to follow orders—and suffer the consequences if you don’t—just like everyone else. And you’d have to maintain your Polyjuice disguise. We’d be taking enough of a diplomatic hit by refusing the request for your leadership without having you show up as yourself or trying to work outside of the alliance.”

Harry got up again and paced the length of the room a couple of times. He and Summers had been working for more than two years with no one to tell them what to do or when to do it. They’d acted on the smallest tips and taken the most outrageous risks that no Auror commander would ever have allowed. Working as part of a larger team under the direction of someone else would be excruciating... and absolutely the right thing to do, if enough people and resources were finally going to be committed to actually capture Dolohov and destroy his network.

The way Shacklebolt was lounging back in his chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes, said more eloquently than words that he knew exactly what was going through Harry’s mind. Harry paced away to hide his grimace. The man was far too perceptive. Halfway across the room, Harry stopped and turned toward Shacklebolt. “And if I say yes?”

Shacklebolt leaned on his forearms again. “You can run the show as you see fit, with access to any resources you need—people, information, magical devices, whatever.”

Harry regarded him silently for a moment, trying to put the questions swirling through his head into some logical order.

“Who would I report to?”

“You’re still part of the Auror Division, so with respect to those duties, you’ll still report to Robards. And I believe you owe him a couple years’s worth of paperwork.” Shacklebolt held up a hand at Harry’s frown. “But for this project, you will report directly to me.”

Harry noted the change in verb tense, as if the decision were made, but ignored it. “And I suppose I’d spend most of my time chained to a desk or prancing around at Ministry functions?”

Shacklebolt smiled and heaved a heavy sigh. “I wish I could promise that you wouldn’t. But, unfortunately, no leader can ever really escape diplomatic or administrative duty, Harry. Working with people isn’t always easy. Building trust and establishing a framework for cooperation takes time, no matter how much we wish things would just fall into place and people would do what we say, no questions asked.”

Harry growled in frustration and started pacing again. “Then why put me in charge? I’m rubbish at that sort of thing.”

Shacklebolt’s deep chuckle only irritated Harry further. “Actually, Harry, you’re quite good at it. I watched you after the war. Even though I could tell that you wanted to be anywhere else, you took the time to talk to people, to listen to them. That’s all people really want is for someone to listen to them. And the fact that you’re Harry Potter, well, that makes it even more appealing. It’s obvious that you care. People _want_ to follow you, Harry. All you have to do is give them a chance.”

Shacklebolt laughed again at Harry’s answering scowl, then held up a hand to cut off Harry’s argument. “But to answer your question about official duties, I expect for the first few weeks or so, at least, that you and I will make the rounds, visiting other ministers and getting this thing organized. Once it’s up and running, though, I see no reason why you can’t spend as much time as you want in the field. If you wish to appoint someone to handle communications and organizational responsibilities—and paperwork—that would be your choice.”

Harry eyed him suspiciously. This sounded entirely too good to be true: complete freedom to go after Dolohov with any resources he wanted at his disposal? Without thinking, he put his doubts to the test.

“What if I want Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger—erm, Weasley—to work with me?”

For the first time that afternoon, Shacklebolt looked surprised. He stroked his chin for a moment as the look in his eyes changed to calculating. Harry realized, too late, that he’d given away the fact that he might actually be considering this bizarre plan. Nothing for it now but to go boldly into the negotiations.

“Weasley is still a trainee,” Shacklebolt said, obviously testing the waters himself.

Harry snorted. “So was I. He’s good at strategy. And I trust him.”

Shacklebolt nodded to concede the point, but his counter-offer was firm. “He needs to complete the training program. We’ve already set a dangerous precedent by allowing you and Summers into the field without finishing—and, by the way, the two of you should probably do some catch-up work—but,” he continued more gently when Harry opened his mouth to disagree, “as time allows, Weasley may join strategy sessions and participate as part of the back-up force during raids. Then, when he is commissioned in the spring, he can become a full-fledged member of the team.”

Harry regarded the Minister for a moment. He didn’t like it, but it was a fair compromise... and at least he could tell Ron that he’d tried.

“And what about Hermione?”

“What if she doesn’t want to give up her legislative causes?” Shacklebolt countered.

“That would be her choice,” Harry said. “But I’d like to ask her. She’d be perfect at keeping things organized and sussing out clues from informant reports.”

Shacklebolt’s gaze reflected what Harry thought might be admiration, but he couldn’t take the time now to analyze it.

“Yes, we can offer Mrs. Weasley a leave of absence from her regular duties if she wishes to participate.”

“And Summers? He can be my second-in-command, right? He knows as much about this case as I do.”

Shacklebolt smirked. “That would make sense, but don’t forget that you’ll have a large pool of talent to draw from. Don’t make too many decisions before you see what resources are available to you.”

He and Shacklebolt stared at each other, neither apparently willing to break the silence first. They’d reached the point of decision.

Harry carded a hand sharply through his hair and spun about to pace to the other end of the room. He leaned against the magical window and stared blindly at the illusion of a waning autumn afternoon.

Without turning, he heaved a sigh. “And what if I really am rubbish? What if I fail?”

When the silence stretched, Harry finally turned to find the Minister watching him, as if waiting for Harry’s full attention.

“I don’t for one minute believe that you’ll fail, Harry.” Shacklebolt’s mellifluous voice resounded with confidence. “I’ve watched you grow from a frightened but determined child into a passionate and determined young man. You’ll succeed because you want to succeed.” Shacklebolt gave him a wry smile. “And besides, don’t you think it would be in my own best interest to make sure that you do?”

Harry gave him a weak grin. He realized that they had slipped into speaking as if he’d already agreed to take on this challenge. And he supposed that he had... what other choice did he have? But he couldn’t bring himself to give in completely just yet.

“Can I think about it?”

“Take all the time you need.” Harry could hear the smile in Shacklebolt’s voice, even if it didn’t show on his face. “But I need to know by eight in the morning.”


	42. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is back, but focused on the search for Dolohov. Ginny would cope better if George would stop trying to help.

The rest of the week went by in a Portkey blur as Harry made the rounds with Minister Shacklebolt to recruit allies all over Europe. They brought in Germany, Austria, The Netherlands, and Bulgaria. Poland and the Czech Republic teetered on the brink of decision. The Slovakian Minister ran them out of the country. And, of course, the press covered their every move. By the time they finally got back to London late Friday night, Harry wanted nothing more than to spend the entire weekend in bed, hiding from the world.

When Kreacher woke him Saturday afternoon with the announcement that “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have arrived,” Harry took several groggy minutes to realize that the elf meant Ron and Hermione. He had barely stumbled into the sitting room before Hermione launched herself at him, clutching the Italian newspaper—the one with the picture of him and Minister Balducci on the front page—and squealing in excitement while Ron watched with a grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear.

“Hermione, it’s not that big a deal,” Harry had protested through a mouthful of bushy hair.

“Not that big a deal? You’re staying! Harry, that’s HUGE!” She’d spun him around in another breath-stealing hug as she spouted a rapid-fire list of things they’d all be doing together. Ron was no help, clapping Harry on the back enthusiastically and nodding indulgently at his wife’s prattling.

Harry fought back the consuming urge to run as fast and as far as he could. Not that he wasn’t looking forward to getting to know his two best friends again—that was part of the reason that he’d requested they be included on the multi-national team. But the way Hermione had made it sound, they’d be spending most of their free time with the whole Weasley clan. Harry wasn’t foolish enough to think that he’d be able to avoid _all_ contact with the Weasleys—at least not without being a complete prick about it—but he’d hoped to keep his visits to the Burrow infrequent and brief... and timed to avoid Ginny.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Work provided a more than adequate excuse to stay away as much as possible, which irritated his two best friends to no end.

When Harry had asked them to serve on the team, Ron had been disappointed about the limitations Shacklebolt had put on him, but he was still eager to be involved as much as possible. Hermione had held a brief “eyebrow conference” with Ron before assuring Harry that she would have no problem clearing her schedule. By the end of the first month, Harry suspected that that moment of silent communication had been their way of working out an evil plan for her to nag at him daily about taking care of himself and to abort his continual efforts to hide himself away from the world when he didn’t have commitments. Much to her dismay, Harry had responded to her concern by burrowing more deeply into his investigation.

Determined to make this team more effective than the task force he’d sat on when Dolohov had first begun making trouble, Harry refused to bring agents out of the field for time-wasting meetings. Instead, he spent much of September bouncing all over Europe with Hermione and Summers, working with the Continental Auror teams at their own ministries or field headquarters to create a process for centralizing and distributing intelligence quickly.

And when he wasn’t traveling, Harry spent his time with his head either in a Floo discussing strategy and gathering information, or in a Penseive viewing intelligence reports—watching the memories had proved to be much more accurate and efficient than depending on tired and distracted field agents to write everything down. The most valuable memories were then shared among the teams through a modified extraction spell Hermione had developed that allowed the memories to be easily copied and inserted into George’s latest invention, the Memisphere—a sort of cross between a Remembrall and a Prophecy Sphere, originally marketed as a way for families to share experiences or store keepsakes. (Hermione had negotiated the purchase of the spheres and the security modifications, otherwise Harry was certain they would’ve been “unavailable.”)

Shacklebolt seemed pleased with the way things were going, even if Harry was becoming more frustrated by the day. The additional eyes in the field hadn’t generated the wealth of information that he’d expected, and, after nearly a month, the French team had yet to break through the enchantments of the invisible village or get an undercover agent in. Harry had traveled to their field base twice a week and had been on the verge of taking over the investigation himself until Hermione pulled him aside to point out that doing so would blatantly insult the French team, not to mention take him away from the larger operation for who knew how long, which would send the wrong message to the other members of the alliance. When Summers had volunteered to spend most of his time as an “on-site consultant” until the village was freed, Harry had grudgingly agreed—even if his own itch to get back into fieldwork was becoming nearly unbearable.

“You’re doing fine, Harry,” Hermione had soothed as she set a plate of stew in front of him at her kitchen table on the first Friday night in October. He glared at her and took a bite to keep from saying something he might regret. She just looked amused as she sat down across from him with her own plate.

Ending the week at the Weasley flat or Grimmauld Place had become routine. As the three of them spent the evening eating and drinking and discussing their week, Harry felt like he could finally relax and be himself.

Tonight, however, he and Hermione were alone. Ron was off on a weekend-long training mission and the two of them had got in late from a contentious meeting with the British team where Robards had been in unusually fine form. Harry was exhausted and hungry and definitely not in the mood for the discussion he could tell from the look in her eyes and the fluttering of her hands that Hermione was working up to. Not that he’d be in the mood for it any other time, either.

He’d done his best to avoid this scenario—just the two of them with plenty of time to talk and no threat of interruption. If he’d been less distracted after the meeting and hadn’t forgotten that Ron wouldn’t be there, he would have tried to go straight home on the excuse that he was too tired to eat. Of course, she would’ve thwarted him somehow; she would never have let this chance get away. But he’d be damned if he was going to make it easy for her.

“Did I handle that bloke in Austria okay?” Harry blurted just as Hermione opened her mouth to speak. Diverting her attention was his only defense at this point. “I mean, I understand why he would question the reason someone so young was in charge, and I don’t think he’s a threat to the investigation or anything. But we don’t need him taking focus off the case by challenging me at every turn. Do you think asking him to leave was the right thing to do?”

She just looked at him for a moment or two before giving a small exasperated shake of her head. “No, you did the right thing—he would’ve been a constant source of trouble. But you might have been a bit more diplomatic about it.”

And so, for the next half-hour, as they worked their way through their stew and bread and most of a bottle of wine, he kept up the discussion of organizational issues and ways to improve communication, cutting Hermione off every time she looked like she might try to change the subject. She finally pressed her lips together and glared at him through narrowed eyes.

“I know what you’re doing, Harry.”

He gave her an insincere grin. “Bully for you. So can you apply some of that superior intelligence and just leave it?”

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. While he held her gaze, Harry could almost see the plans of attack being sorted in her head. After a moment, she split the remaining wine between their glasses and stood. “Let’s go into the other room. It’ll be more comfortable.”

Harry snorted, but followed her into the lounge and flopped into the armchair. “What? You think I’m going to be more pliable with a glass of wine and a soft cushion at my back? There’s no point in talking about this. We won’t agree.”

Hermione took a sip of her wine and rolled it around on her tongue as she studied him from her spot in the corner of the sofa. “You don’t even know what I want to talk about.”

Harry opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. This was Hermione’s conversational version of the Wronski Feint—forcing him to put the topic on the table first. Well, two could play at this game. He took a sip of wine then put a deliberately stubborn look on his face. “I’m not freeing Kreacher, no matter how much you nag me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, of course not. He’d commit _hari kari_ on the spot. And you know perfectly well that’s not what we’re talking about.”

“We were talking about something?”

With a growl, she set her glass down on the coffee table with a clunk. “Fine! I’ll just get to it then. Why are you avoiding the Weasleys? Is it because of George?”

That took Harry by surprise. He’d expected her to go straight to Ginny. But, either way, he really didn’t have the energy for this tonight. Setting his glass down, he leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, shoved his fingers under his glasses, and wearily rubbed at his eyes.

“I’m not avoiding the Weasleys. I go over there every week.”

“But you wouldn’t if Shacklebolt hadn’t forbidden you to go into the office on Sundays. And you weren’t exactly sneaky about using Teddy as an excuse to slip away early. Why do you think Mrs. Weasley started inviting Mrs. Tonks? Honestly, I’m always surprised when you finally _do_ show up.”

Harry grimaced. More than once, he’d considered _not_ showing up and just suffering through Hermione’s sermon later. But Mrs. Weasley had made it clear that she’d be hurt and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to deliberately do that to her, in spite of his discomfort.

“You’re there, but you’re not.” Hermione’s voice brought Harry back to the present. “You _do_ know that you don’t have to worry about George’s threats, don’t you?”

Harry grunted a laugh. “George is the only one who has the right of it. He’s the only reason I can stand to go in the first place. At least I know I can live up to _his_ standards.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry threw his hands into the air. “I can’t give them what they want! There’s all these… these…” —he flapped his hands in frustration— “unspoken… expectations. I just can’t—”

“They just want you to be yourself! Merlin’s sake, Harry, they just want you to act like part of the family.”

“I don’t know _how_ to be part of a family, Hermione!” Harry shouted as he jumped to his feet. “I don’t _have_ a family! I’ll _never_ have a family!”

“By _your_ choice, not theirs!” Hermione stood and shouted back.

He met her furious glare with a level gaze. “Exactly.”

Her jaw fell open and she gave a small laugh of disbelief. “You honestly believe that, don’t you? That you can’t have a family. Why, Harry? Why?”

He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned. “I just don’t see the point, okay? No, listen!” he barked as she started to interrupt again. “I’m an Auror. I throw myself into danger regularly. I’m no less a target now than I’ve ever been. I just don’t see the point in—” He huffed a frustrated breath and turned away.

The silence grew loud; Hermione’s quiet words barely registered. “What about a family of your own, then? A wife? Children?”

Harry gave a mirthless little laugh and turned back toward her. “Even if I could find someone who could handle… someone who could accept _me_ , not _Harry Potter_ ” —he made little quote marks around his name with his fingers and glared off her automatic protest— “it wouldn’t be fair. Shacklebolt once told me that ninety percent of all Auror marriages fail because the spouse at home can’t handle the waiting. Why would I put anyone through that?”

“What?” The word was more of a gasp as Hermione’s mouth fell open. “So you’re saying that Ron and I shouldn’t have got married? Or that he should quit?”

“No!” Harry ran his hands through his hair again and made an effort to speak more gently. “No. Look. You’re different. Ron’s different. You’ve been through danger together before and now that you’re with the DMLE, you’ll probably be pulled in on more cases like this one. You won’t be sitting around waiting because you’ll be in the thick of it. You’ll—the two of you—you’ll make a good team.” He turned toward the mantle and watched the wedding picture of Ron and Hermione as they kissed, then smiled at him. Clearing his throat to push down an unwelcome knot of emotion, he kept his eyes on the picture. “And, besides, you both already know how to be part of a family. My life has never been normal and I don’t see that ever changing. I’d be barmy to even think of trying to make a go of it with someone, much less…” He couldn’t bring himself to mention the children he’d never have. He heaved a ragged sigh. “The whole idea would be set for disaster from the start.”

“Oh, Harry…”

“Don’t!” He turned back toward her, fists clenched. “Don’t even _think_ of feeling sorry for me, Hermione. That’s just the way it is. If you really want to help, just accept it and move on.”

She watched him for a moment, the emotions flitting in her eyes no doubt matching the thoughts racing through her head. “So, what about Teddy, then?”

Harry stabbed his fingers into the back of his hair and pulled. “Yeah, well, I should never have agreed to that. He needs someone he can count on. I’m no better than Sirius.” Hermione made an anguished moan; Harry quickly spoke over her. “But I’ll do the best I can… for as long as I can.”

Throwing her hands into the air, Hermione shook her head and sat back down, dropping her face into her hands for a moment before sitting back and piercing him with a glare. “And Ron and me? Are you going to try to push us away, too?”

He gave her a wry grin. “I didn’t think I had much of a choice about you two. If I couldn’t run you off with that bloody Horcrux hunt, I don’t reckon I’ll ever be able to.”

She rose and walked over to cradle his face in her hands. “Damn right! But I’ll tell you a secret. You don’t really have a choice about the rest of the family, either. Whether you like it or not, the fact that she didn’t actually give birth to you doesn’t matter one bit to Molly Weasley. You’re as much her son, and Arthur’s, as any of the others. And you’re hurting her—them—by keeping them away. She’s worried sick about you.”

Harry closed his eyes to stop the prickling behind them as Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Stop fighting it, Harry. I know you want this and they’re not going to give up. Just stop fighting. Give them a chance. Please.”

Harry hugged her tightly and rested his cheek on the top of her head, allowing himself, just this once, to enjoy the feel of a heart beating next to his—a feeling he couldn’t indulge in too often or he might start to need it. But she knew him much too well, this sister of his heart, and she was fearless like no one else in forcing him to examine his actions and emotions. He _did_ want a family. And he _did_ love the Weasleys. That was the real reason he’d tried to stay away… the pain would be too hard to bear if he got close and then they came to their senses and sent him away again. But he didn’t want to hurt them, either. Especially not Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the closest to parents he’d ever had. Maybe he could relax just a bit… not for the whole family… just for them… maybe…

***

Sunday had become Ginny’s least favorite day of the week… even if she couldn’t keep from counting the hours until it arrived.

The rest of the week, between visits to the children’s home and Gwenog’s relentless training, Ginny was able to function almost normally by pretending that Harry was still away. But that was during the day when she could force him from her thoughts with reminders of her newfound determination to stand on her own. Unfortunately, at night, her subconscious didn’t cooperate at all, using the fresh images of him to weave erotic dreams that would wake her before the sun, trembling with desire and despair. The only way she’d found to escape the siren’s call of misery was to force herself out of bed immediately and take to the air. The extra hours of flying before practice cleared her head enough to allow her to concentrate during the team drills, and an hour or two after practice usually exhausted her enough to fall asleep at night. Usually.

On Sundays, however, reality hit her full in the face and completely disrupted her personal delusion. Ginny got to the Burrow early to help her mother put the finishing touches on the meal; Harry was always the last to arrive. After exchanging pleasant greetings, they spent the rest of the afternoon in an intricate dance of staying as far away from each other as possible without being _too_ obvious about it. Harry sat near one end of the table; Ginny sat at the other end, but on the same side so they didn’t have to avoid looking at each other. After the meal was finished, Harry retreated to the sitting room or went outside to play with Teddy and Victoire. Ginny stayed to help clean up in the kitchen, then, if Harry was inside, wandered into the garden; if he was outside, she stayed in. They both participated in the larger group conversations—usually about Quidditch and the upcoming charity match—but they never spoke directly to one another. They never, ever, ever made eye contact.

In fact, she tried very hard not to look in Harry’s direction, although she caught herself, more than she wanted to admit, looking at whoever was sitting near him… which usually meant that she could see him as well, but not because she was looking at _him_. Watching him would only make it harder to hang onto her resolve to move on with her life. And she _was_ moving on with her life. Absolutely. Moving on.

Right.

That’s how she found herself on the first Sunday in October standing in the shadows at her old bedroom window, smiling at Harry’s antics as he let Teddy and Victoire chase him around a tree in the garden while the rest of the family cheered them on. Every time they tackled him, he would roll around on the ground, squealing so comically in mock terror that the kids would collapse into gales of giggles until he “escaped” and the game would start all over again. It was the happiest he ever looked these days and Ginny couldn’t stop the swell of love that made her heart feel too big for her chest. One day, he would make a wonderful father for some lucky children… no matter who their mother was.

Before that thought could sink its claws into her, the sound of raised voices wafted up the stairs from the kitchen—her name was the clearest word to reach her ears. Without a second thought, she slipped from her room, eased over the squeaky stair, and stopped, out of sight, in the dimmest corner of the first landing, just like she used to do when she was little. Pressing back against the wall, she made an effort to quiet her breathing.

“…just let it go!” Bill’s voice was filled with frustration. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat.”

“What, I’m a spoiled brat because I refuse to stand back and watch while that wanker destroys her?” Ginny could envision the sneer that had to be on George’s face. “He’s already led her on and walked away from her twice. The last time nearly killed her. Why the hell should any of us let him anywhere near her, much less bring him back into the family fold? I say send him back where he came from and good riddance.”

“Hang on.” Bill had obviously had a revelation. “You warned him off, didn’t you? At Ron’s stag do. You weren’t just warning him away from the family. You threatened him about Ginny.”

Ginny only just managed to bite back her gasp. George had threatened Harry? How _dare_ he? She’d asked him months ago to keep his nose out of her business.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Bill’s voice was tight with rage. “You can’t go messing about in people’s lives. It’s not your place! You’re going to do more harm than—”

“She’s our baby sister!” George shouted. “Our _only_ sister! Why _shouldn’t_ we protect her? And I’m damn well going to do it, since the rest of you would rather throw her to the Dementor so he can finish sucking the life out of her.”

“She’d hate that and you know it!”

“Well, just like I told him, she’s not going to find out, is she? Are _you_ going to tell her?” The silence was heavy for a moment before Bill murmured something incoherent and George grunted a humorless laugh. “Thought not.”

Ginny was seething, but before she could collect her thoughts enough to attack, George continued.

“Besides, things worked out at the wedding, didn’t they? She and Liam were getting on brilliantly, just like old times.” Could you really _hear_ a smirk? “Especially once Krum showed up with Potter’s little Russian bit. Couldn’t have planned that one if I’d tried.”

“ _You_ did it!” Bill sounded as shocked as Ginny felt. “ _You_ sent O’Leary that invitation, didn’t you? Mum said she didn’t remember his name being on the list. But you made sure he was there.”

“And a good thing, too.”

Ginny didn’t even try to hold back as she gasped out loud at George’s admission, though they didn’t seem to hear. No matter that she had been grateful for Liam’s presence at the wedding, George had no right to manipulate her or Liam… or Harry.

“And once she and Liam are back together,” George continued smugly, “she’ll realize that she’s better off without the _Chosen One_. But she’d get there quicker if the rest of you lot wouldn’t keep dragging him back here every week. At least he knows better than to pay her any mind while I’m—”

“You arrogant arse wipe!” Ginny launched herself down the stairs and shoved George into the sideboard, sending a stack of plates crashing to the floor. Bill backed across the room to safety.

George paled, his eyes bulging as he scrambled to find his feet and put some distance between them. “Gin, wait… I can ex—”

“Explain? What’s to explain? I _heard_! How _dare_ you?” She punctuated her words with a fist to his chest. “I told you months ago to stay out of my business. But I guess a _baby_ doesn’t deserve any respect, yeah?” George cringed. “I’m twenty years old! When do I get to grow up and make my own decisions? What gives you the right to meddle in my affairs—threatening people, manipulating them? Do you think for one minute that you could _really_ be a threat to Harry? Do you have a _death_ wish? And I can’t believe you would do that to Liam. What’s he ever done to you?”

“N-n-nothing!” George tried to sidestep his way out of the corner Ginny had him backed into. “Nothing. I just thought... I knew that... if you two... he’s so good for you... he’s—”

“LIAM IS ENGAGED TO SOMEONE ELSE!” Ginny roared.

She hadn’t thought it was possible for George to turn any paler. “Engaged? Oh, Gin… Merlin… I’m sor—”

“I’m NOT! He’s happy!” Ginny stepped forward again and jabbed her wand into George’s neck—she didn’t even remember drawing it. “Leave him alone. And stay out of my life! Don’t you get it? I’m not a helpless little baby who needs coddling. I’m a grown woman. If I make a choice that doesn’t work out, that’s _my_ business. I do NOT need a _man_ to protect me. I do NOT need a _man_ to define me. Not a _boyfriend_. Not a _lover_. Not a _husband_.” She gave him another shove against the wall. “And most certainly not a _brother_. Stay out of my life! _DO YOU UNDERSTAND?_ ” She spit out each syllable like a small, hard pebble.

George swallowed heavily against her wandtip and nodded.

With a growl, Ginny gave him a final shove and whirled to glare at Bill. “And you?”

He held up his hands in surrender, but couldn’t suppress his smile. “Perfectly clear.”

“Good!” With one last growl at George, she tipped her nose into the air and slammed open the garden door… to find Harry standing at the bottom step with that look on his face—the one he always got when he was ready to play the hero.

Her fury flared anew. “And _you_ can just bugger off, too!”

Giving him her most scathing glare, she pushed past and stalked out the garden gate.

***

Harry looked up, surprised to find himself already at the Ministry lifts. The last he remembered, he’d been standing on the front step at Grimmauld Place trying to avoid the photographers across the street. With a grimace, he checked to be sure nothing critical was missing, then jammed a finger nearly through the call button.

This just _had_ to stop! His mental wanderings had earned a mild reprimand from Shacklebolt after their meeting with the Belgian Minister on Monday, and on Tuesday, Hermione had given him hell about not paying attention during the follow-up meeting with the Belgian Auror team. Not that she’d actually _said_ anything; she could convey more with one eyebrow than Snape had ever dreamed possible.

Harry had explained that he was worried about the lack of progress on the French village crisis.

Hermione had flicked the end of her eyebrow and hmm-ed.

He knew what she was thinking, but the French village was a perfectly legitimate distraction. That was his story and he was sticking to it.

Under no circumstance would he ever admit that the scene with Ginny on Sunday just wouldn’t stop running on a continuous loop in his head.

He really hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He knew he should’ve walked away when he heard the argument already in progress. But he’d been distracted from that thought when the traitorous monster in his chest had sprung to life and danced with glee (without permission) at the first words that had come through clearly—O’Leary was engaged to someone else—and that she had seemed angrier at George for trying to coddle her than at O’Leary for dumping her. She’d slammed out of the house just as Harry had begun to wonder if he should go in to protect George, and her furious parting shot had had exactly opposite the intended effect. Instead of putting Harry in his place, he’d been forced to quell the urge to chase after her and try to channel that fiery passion in a very different direction.

He couldn’t deny his attraction to Ginny; he’d stopped telling that lie to himself months ago (although he’d cut out his tongue with a rusty spoon before admitting it to anyone else). But he’d been completely honest with Hermione about making a carefully considered and logically sound decision _not_ to pursue… well, anyone. He’d made a choice. The right one it seemed because Ginny, apparently, didn’t need or want a man. So, once he’d beaten his chest monster back into submission and forced his friendly-face mask back into place, he’d stayed at the Burrow for another hour before going home to finish putting his head back in order.

So, yeah – why would he be distracted by any of that? The French village was more important. Much more important.

Harry punched the lift button a couple of times with more force than necessary, raising some eyebrows among the small group of other late arrivals. When the lift finally opened, he stepped in and focused on the changing floor numbers so he wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact and have to exchange morning pleasantries. He was much too sleep-deprived and grumpy to make it believable. And he needed to start preparing his mind for the morning ahead. At least he had no scheduled meetings and Hermione was going to be handling a minor crisis in her own office until lunch. Perhaps a short workout in the training room would help clear his head before he submerged it in the latest Pensieve reports.

Stepping off the lift with renewed purpose, Harry walked smack into an airborne memo that deflected off his forehead and lodged itself between his glasses and his left eye. He scowled at the snickers that followed two of his coworkers down the hall and yanked the parchment airplane free. His brows scrunched into a fiercer frown at the Head Auror’s Office insignia on the wing above his scrawled name and he snapped the memo open.

_My office. Now._

_—Robards_

Great! The day was getting worse by the minute.

“Yeah!” Robards barked at Harry’s sharp rap on the open door. After a quick glance to see who it was, the Head Auror dropped his eyes back to the parchment on his desk. “You’re teaching third-year Defense this morning. Nine minutes.”

“ _What?!_ ” Harry gaped at him. “I can’t—”

“I don’t have time to argue with you.” Robards didn’t look up. “Worthington took a curse while breaking up a domestic dispute last night and you’re filling in. Possibly for several weeks.”

“Wait! No! I’m not qualified to teach, especially not third-year trainees. I didn’t even finish my first year.”

Robards peered over the top of his glasses without raising his head. “You’re telling me you’ve never taught before?”

A vision of leading Dumbledore’s Army flashed through Harry’s mind and his mouth answered before he could stop it. “Well, no, but—”

“You’re telling me Ingalls lied when he said you’d mastered advanced spells?”

“No, but—”

“Then you’re teaching...” Robards cast a Tempus Charm and started gathering stacks of parchment. “...in eight minutes.”

“But… but… wait!” Harry spluttered as Robards stood and headed around the desk. “I’ve got—”

“No pressing meetings this morning. I checked with your assistant. And everyone else has more assignments than they can handle.”

“But _you_ could... You used to...”

“I have a meeting with the Minister.” Robards nudged Harry out the door, closed and warded it, and headed down the makeshift hallway around the central cubicles. “You’re wasting time. Go!” he tossed over his shoulder.

Harry watched him leave, jaw agape.

“Seven minutes, Potter. Move!” Robards bellowed as he turned the corner.

“What am I supposed to teach them?” Harry yelled after him, but got no response except for a couple of heads popping up over the cubicle walls to see what the ruckus was about. Throwing his hands in the air with a frustrated growl, he followed Robards’s path and stomped down the main corridor to the Defense classroom.

Standing in the center of the large room, Harry rested his hands on his hips and fought to rein in his anger. _Bloody Robards!_ This was no doubt some sort of test or, more likely, a trap, an opportunity to knock Harry down a few notches by making him look the fool. Well, by Merlin, he wasn’t about to let the old troll win.

The clock on the wall showed five minutes until the class should start. Harry surveyed the area, his mind racing through options. By far the largest of the Auror training classrooms, the room was mostly dueling space with cushion-charmed walls and floors and a variety of magical weapons and targets. Only a small corner was allotted for lectures with a large teacher’s desk, a dozen or so student desks, and a magical illustration board.

Harry immediately dismissed the lecture area. He had no clue what they’d been studying and no idea what he would say. Dueling was his strength; that’s what he’d teach.

The decision made, he shrugged out of his red outer robes and dropped them on the teacher’s desk. His regulation black trousers and boots and non-regulation black t-shirt would suffice for the physical activity starting to brew in his head. If he couldn’t clear his mind in the workout room, this would have to do.

By the time the students started drifting in, Harry had planted himself in the center of the dueling area, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over his chest with his wand holster prominently displayed on his forearm. He knew he looked intimidating, but establishing control at the outset was the whole point.

The two young women who entered first stopped their chatter and paused at the sight of him, causing a bit of a bunch-up at the door. The confusion slowed things just enough for Harry to realize that he recognized the two men behind them; they’d been at Ron’s stag do. _Bugger!_ This was Ron and Neville’s class. Fortunately they were the last into the room, giving Harry time to cover his surprise.

The group was small. Only five men and two women had survived from an entry class of eighteen. Ron and Neville were grinning like fools as they watched the others slowly realize who they were facing.

Harry held his impassive stare with an effort and spoke in his most commanding voice.

“What is the most important rule an Auror should follow?”

“Constant vigilance!” Neville responded immediately.

In a flash, Harry snapped his wand into his right hand and held up his left to catch the wands that flew into it at his silent command.

With a smirk he fanned out five wands, then cocked an eyebrow at Ron and Neville leaning nonchalantly against the wall, wands nestled in fists at the crooks of their crossed arms, and a dissipating shield charm shimmering in front of them.

“And what’s the second most important rule, Mr. Weasley?”

“Know your opponent,” Ron said with an answering smirk.

“Hardly fair since you’re his mates,” someone in the group grumbled just loud enough for Harry to hear. “You knew what to expect.”

“If that were the case…” all eyes shot back to Harry as he spoke, “I’d say, Mr. Weasley’s Divination skills have improved dramatically since school. _I_ didn’t even know I was going to be teaching this class until ten minutes ago and I haven’t planned anything. The point is, Mr…”

“Andrews,” the brilliantly blushing young man mumbled.

“Mr. Andrews. The point is that you should always be ready for anything. And I believe that the _Daily Prophet_ has repeatedly labeled Expelliarmus as my signature spell for more than three years. Weasley and Longbottom had no more information than you did.” Harry swept a lazy gaze over the group. “Any other comments or questions?” All but Ron and Neville looked at the floor and shuffled their feet nervously. “Then pair up. I want to see what you’ve got.” He paused and gave them a grin that was more than a bit wicked. “And since we’ve an uneven group, you’ll take turns pairing with me. Shall I start with you, Mr. Andrews?”

The young man turned from bright red to ghost pale in the space of a second. Ron’s snort sounded a bit like “show-off.” Harry shot him an amused look before turning toward the corner of the room, leaving his fistful of wands hanging in the air with a silent, wandless levitation spell. “Get your wands, then, and let’s get started.”

The gasp of surprise that followed him was immensely satisfying. Yes, this was going to be much more fun than lifting weights and blasting targets.

***

“There! What about that one? Surely, that’s a ten if ever there was one.”

Ginny followed the direction of Kelby’s nod and squinted through the haze of smoke and shifting bodies. “Which one? Tight jeans or clingy robes?”

“Clingy Robe is lookin’ at the same thing we are, idiot—Mr. Tasty Jeans.” 

Wrinkling her nose, Ginny considered the back of the denim-clad wizard leaning against the bar and gave a throaty hum of disagreement. “No. No more than eight at the most.”

Val, on Kelby’s other side, leaned forward and rolled her eyes. “Are you barkin’? That’s the best arse in the place tonight, Gin.”

The three Harpies—willowy blonde, doe-eyed brunette, and petite redhead—were lined up on their usual tall stools against the back wall of the Glowing Goblet, scoping out the unusually large and rowdy crowd at the Saturday night post-match celebration of the Harpies’ win over the Tutshill Tornados. The entire Harpies team had played flawlessly, but Ginny had outdone herself several times over, and fellow Chaser Valmai Morgan and reserve Seeker Kelby Howell seemed determined to make sure Ginny got a fitting reward for her hard work… whether she wanted it or not.

“Your standards are too high,” Val said with a sniff, finger twirling a golden curl.

“What’s wrong with high standards?”

“Nothing, unless they’re over the moon. You haven’t tried to pull in months.”

Ginny gave an indignant snort. “I never try to pull.”

Val flicked her hand. “Pull. Flirt. Semantics. You used to be the biggest flirt in the place, even when you were dating Liam. But now that you’re available again, you can’t be arsed to even be nice to the blokes. Come on. Go chat up Mr. Tasty Jeans. I’ll bet you could have ’em around his ankles and his nose in your knickers in ten minutes or less. He’s been watching you, you know.”

“Has he?” Ginny asked casually, slanting another glance across the room, but the man’s back was still turned. If pressed, she’d have to admit he was fit, but she just wasn’t interested. She shrugged. “I’ve sworn off men.”

“Oh, so the rumors about you changing teams are true?” Val leered at Ginny around Kelby.

Ginny pulled a face. “Not hardly, but I am _sooo_ done with men, right now. If they’re not trying to run my life, they’re treating me like a baby. All that testosterone they use for blood just muddies their brains, which, by the way, are located in their trousers so they’re oxygen deprived as well. I might be attracted to men, but I don’t _need_ one and, right now, I don’t _want_ one. I can take care of myself, thank you very much!”

“Okaaaay…” Val shared an amused look with Kelby—Ginny’s death glare dared them to make the obvious comeback. Val’s grin was pure cheek as she cast another appraising glance across the room. “Well, men might be pigs, but those trouser brains are good for at least one thing.”

Ginny gave an airy wave. “Help yourself. You know I don’t do one-offs, anyway.”

Kelby smirked. “That’s not what the press is saying.”

“Arrrgh!” Ginny dropped her head into her hands. “You’re _still_ reading that rubbish?” Val and Kelby giggled like schoolgirls over the team’s favorite source of entertainment. Ginny lifted her head and gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, let’s have it, then. Who am I shagging this week?”

Kelby set her drink down and started counting off on her fingers. “ _Witch Weekly_ says you’ve thrown over Flint for Wood.”

“Which pictures did they use?” Ginny asked with a put-upon frown.

“The one with you and Flint from the awards banquet and one of you and Wood eating ice cream in front of Fortescue’s.”

Ginny huffed in annoyance—she and Wood had barely said hello as they passed each other in that shot. “Well, at least I look stunning in one of them.”

Kelby smiled and resumed her count-down. “ _Wand-r-lust_ says you’re in a threesome with Gwen and Celestina Warbeck.”

Ginny couldn’t resist an eye-roll.

“…and Jasper Jinks at the _Prophet_ stands by his claim that you’re carrying Harry Potter’s love child. He used a picture of you wearing ratty jeans, a training jersey, and a Muggle cap. Every time you turned in profile, a little arrow would pop up to point to your ‘baby bump.’”

“Baby bump!” Ginny leaned away from the table and flattened her shirt against her stomach. “I don’t have _any_ kind of bump. My stomach is flatter than when I was in school!”

Val and Kelby laughed.

“According to old Jasper, you’ve got a bump,” Val said.

“Whatever.” Ginny waved a weary hand and gazed around the room. Jinks had been merciless in his pursuit of any connection between Ginny and Harry since the day Harry had returned. The smarmy reporter was probably prowling about the pub right now, just waiting for the chance to gather “evidence” of her impending motherhood. She took long draw on her drink and hoped he was watching.

“Of course,” Val added in an overly saccharine tone, “we _know_ the claim about Potter can’t _possibly_ be true because Skeeter says he’s secretly involved with Hermione Granger…”

“Weasley,” Ginny corrected in passing.

“… and _Wand-r-lust_ says he’s doing the Minister.”

“Well, he and the Minister _have_ been traveling together a good bit lately,” Ginny quipped, then wished she could snatch the words back, knowing the door they would open.

Val sat forward with a too-bright smile. “You could ask him about it tomorrow.”

“Right. I’ll do that.” Ginny agreed with heavy sarcasm as she pretended to scan the crowd.

“He still comes around, then, does he?” Kelby asked, a bit too casually.

“More or less.” Ginny couldn’t keep the bitter note from her voice and dropped her eyes to concentrate on clearing every drop of moisture from the outside of her glass. Most of the world didn’t know that Harry came to the Weasley Sunday gatherings, but she’d made the mistake of mentioning it once to these two—they’d been beyond excited by the news. She’d tried to make it clear that she wasn’t going to provide them with gossip, but they occasionally probed for information anyway. Kelby and Val were her closest friends on the team, but not close enough to confide anything about Harry, even if she _thought_ she could trust them to keep it to themselves.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Val’s eyebrows disappear under her fringe. “So, I take it, then, you’re _not_ carrying his love child?”

Ginny knew they were just trying to lighten the mood again, but the words suddenly ignited the inexplicable anger she’d felt at Harry since her confrontation with George. Her voice lost all hint of teasing. “You actually believe that I’d carry the spawn of the world’s foremost testosterone-driven overprotective alpha male? I’d rather shag a troll.”

Kelby and Val shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ginny’s frown deepened as she studiously ignored them.

“Erm… yeah. Well, okay, then…” Val murmured, sliding off her stool. “I think I’ll go and chat up Mr. Tasty Jeans, if you don’t want him.”

“I’ll… I think I’ll get another drink,” Kelby added as she slipped from behind the table. “Do you want anything, Gin?”

Ginny shook her head and waved them off, regretting her outburst but not yet ready to apologize. Maybe next time, they’d keep their noses to themselves.

The talk of Harry had rekindled her ire about men in general. In the nearly two weeks since her confrontation with George, she hadn’t been able to even think of him or Harry without flying into a towering rage. She knew George loved her, and she appreciated his concern, but he’d crossed the line from worrying to meddling, and she was through being nice; George was finally catching on. He’d stayed late in the shop every night for the week following their row, waiting for her to come home and begging at her door to be allowed to apologize. Ginny had ignored him until last Sunday, when he’d cornered her in the kitchen.

_“Gin, I’m sorry. I never meant—”_

_“I don’t believe you. I asked you months ago not to interfere and you did it anyway. Why should I believe you?”_

_“Because I mean it this time. I swear. I’ll prove it—”_

_“Prove it? How?”_

_She saw the flicker of hope in his eyes. “I’ll do anything—anything you want.”_

_“Anything?”_

_The flicker turned wary, then steadied into determination. “Yes. Anything.”_

_“Fine, then. Be nice to Harry. Welcome him into the family… and mean it!”_

George had agreed and seemed to be trying, if somewhat reluctantly, but Ginny hadn’t been able to follow her own directive. She couldn’t even say why she was so angry with Harry, but every time she was in the same room with him, she just wanted to scream at him or hex him or do _something_ to jolt him out of that cool, distant demeanor that he wore. He seemed to be more open to Mum and Dad lately—apparently the result of a conversation Hermione had mentioned but refused to detail—but he still kept everyone else, except the children, at arm’s length.

Ginny growled to herself and downed the rest of her ale. If she could just go to her own bloody house and be able to relax! This tiptoeing around each other, spending every Sunday on edge, was positively maddening. Harry had said that they were adults and shouldn’t have to avoid each other, but that’s exactly what they’d been doing. Yes, she was as guilty as he—probably more so—but how was she supposed to act normally around him if he wouldn’t act normally around her?

Kelby’s voice interrupted Ginny’s inner rant. “Mr. Tasty Jeans is just as fine from the front as from the back.” Kelby nodded toward where Val was smiling up at the dark-haired wizard who looked all too familiar.

Ginny’s anger flared impossibly higher. “Why that effin’ little…”

“What?” Kelby frowned as she looked back and forth between Ginny and the couple at the bar. “What’s wrong? Who is he?”

“Scott Summers,” Ginny growled through gritted teeth. Her eyes narrowed as he gave her a blinding smile and raised his glass in salute. “Harry’s Auror partner.” She glanced about the room, wondering if other Aurors were hidden amongst the crowd. This was just wrong. Did they send undercover agents to protect the _men’s_ teams from the fans?

Kelby’s mouth formed a surprised “oh,” then flattened into a grimace. “Uh, oh. Creepy Montague’s headed this way.”

With a groan, Ginny reached for her glass, then, realizing it was empty, grabbed Kelby’s full one. “Let me borrow this. I’ll get you another.” Kelby rolled her eyes, but moved Ginny’s glass in front of herself as they watched Montague make his way through the crowd, idiot sidekicks in tow.

For all his fine clothing and reasonably attractive looks, Crispus Montague wasn’t nearly as alluring as he believed and took moneyed arrogance to whole new level. Fred and George had stuffed his older brother into the Vanishing Cabinet their sixth year and Ginny wished they’d shoved little brother in with him. For the past month, she’d tried politely deflecting his crude flirtation, but his advances were beginning to escalate and she could tell that she was going to have to be much more direct. He might be creepy, but she wasn’t afraid of him.

“Good evening, ladies,” Montague purred as he drew up a stool and settled much too close to Ginny. Kelby shifted her stool to the side of the table to give Ginny room to move away—far away, if necessary—but one of Montague’s companions leaned against the wall, blocking the escape route. Ginny made an obvious point of putting as much distance as possible between herself and Montague, then surreptitiously pulled her wand from her pocket under the cover of the table. Apparently, he was going to step up his game tonight. She didn’t want to make a scene, but she’d do what she needed to protect herself.

Montague leaned close to murmur in Ginny’s ear. “Can I get you a drink? Or something more… stimulating?”

Ginny leaned away. “I have a drink. And back off. I like my air to be untainted with essence of ogre.”

He moved away only slightly and smiled. “That’s my little Fireball. I do so love it when you issue a challenge.”

“You won’t like it so much when I follow through,” Ginny said, leaning further away. “Just go—”

“Evening, ladies. Gents.”

Ginny whipped around to find Scott Summers standing on the opposite side of the table with Val right behind him. Summers flashed his blinding smile around the group and casually rested his forearms on the tall table, making a show of hitching his right one forward enough to slide his sleeve up his arm and reveal the unmistakable cuff of an Auror-issued wand holster. The smile left his eyes, if not the rest of his face, as he focused on Montague.

“These blokes aren’t bothering you, are they, ladies?”

“Not a bit,” Kelby answered quickly, her voice hard. “They were just leaving.”

Montague held Summers’s eyes for another moment before cocking his head to signal his goons to leave and giving a haughty lift of his chin as he stood. “Yes, unfortunately, we have somewhere else to be right now.” He raised a brow at Ginny. “But I’ll catch you up later, love.” It was as much a threat as a promise.

Ginny glared at him until he left, then turned her fury on the man across the table. “Well, you’ve done your duty. You can leave now.”

That knocked the cocky grin off his face. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “My duty?”

“Yes, haven’t you been _assigned_ to protect the helpless maidens?” Ginny sneered. “Well, you’ve done it. You can go.”

Summers held his hands up in surrender and took a step backward. “Hang on. I haven’t been _assigned_ to do anything. I just came with my mates for a few pints after the match and thought I’d try to help out.”

“Well, don’t!” Ginny snapped as she slid off her stool and took a menacing step toward him. “I can take care of myself!”

He backed up another step as she stalked past him. She knew her teammates were gaping at her, too, but she refused to look back, instead, slamming the Floo powder into the flames and escaping into the green whirl that took her to the safety and peace of her own sitting room.

Ginny immediately collapsed onto the sofa and dropped her head into her hands. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t even pretend to be polite in public? Especially to someone she hadn’t even met properly who’d just done her a huge favor? She groaned and slumped against the back of the sofa. A month’s worth of sleepless nights might have a bit to do with it, but she knew it was more than that. Merlin, she had to get herself under control. Perhaps it was time to see if Hermione could brew that potion again. At the very least, she needed a good night’s sleep before she had to face Ha—her family tomorrow. She shoved herself off the couch and headed for the bathroom cupboard wondering if she had any Dreamless Sleep potion that hadn’t gone bad.

***

Harry leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head to work the kinks out of his spine. He had spent the last three hours going through the Pensieve report from the Italian team; they thought they’d uncovered a clue to the cloaking spells Dolohov was now using on three villages, and he had wanted to sort through it so when Hermione saw it on Monday, she could go in prepared to watch for anything he’d missed.

He had to admit that Hermione had the right of it—coming in on the weekends was the best way to get a lot of work done. During the week, between the memos zooming in and the Floo flaring every five minutes, he could hardly find time to form two coherent thoughts, much less get anything productive done. Saturdays had quickly become his favorite day to work. Of course, the third time she’d found him at his desk taking advantage of the weekend quiet and berated him for working too hard, he had simply raised an eyebrow in response.

Tonight, just like every Saturday, the office was eerily quiet. The suite of rooms he’d negotiated out of the Minister was distant from the Auror Department cubicles and the hubbub of the weekend night shift. Hermione had left hours ago and the only sound he could hear was a sappy Celestina Warbeck song playing quietly on the wireless that no one had bothered to turn off when the Harpies match was over. (Hermione hadn’t bought his story that the wireless was on and tuned to the match when he’d got there, but she hadn’t pressed the matter.)

Harry held his stretch, enjoying the quiet… and nearly jumped out of his skin when an owl swooped through the door and landed on his desk.

“Bloody hell, bird. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The non-descript tawny just cocked its head and held out its leg. Almost before Harry had detached the tiny roll of parchment, it spread its wings and glided back out the door.

“Well, I would’ve offered you a treat,” he shouted, but his echo was the only thing that came back. “Huh! Ruddy bird,” he muttered as he opened the scroll, then gasped as the parchment shimmered with a revealing charm and the handwriting he thought he’d never see again appeared.

_Watch the coasts._

Malfoy was back in touch.


	43. Friends again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron offers Ginny some advice. Mr. Weasley has a heart-to-heart with Harry. And Harry and Ginny try to work out the new parameters of their relationship.

Ginny tried hard—and failed—not to cast an anxious look at the Floo on her way to the scullery. Harry was later than usual. Perhaps this was the day he’d finally decided not to come. Ironically, she’d almost stayed home herself.

After finishing the last of her Dreamless Sleep Potion and getting a bit of rest, she felt a bit more in control of her emotions and had even considered sending a note of apology to Summers. But she hadn’t been able to come up with a reasonable explanation for her actions—not one that she wanted to share—and she really wasn’t very sorry, anyway. At least next time, he wouldn’t be so quick to treat her like a damsel in distress.

Ginny rummaged through the shelves in the scullery to find the tray her mother wanted and headed back into the kitchen, nearly colliding with Harry as he came through the back door. Noting his wilder-than-usual hair and wind-flushed cheeks, she was glad he’d turned his head away so he wouldn’t see her gaze of longing as he set his broom behind the door—the custom-made, one-of-a-kind broom that they’d never found time for her to try out that autumn at Hogwarts because they were… doing other things.

“Hi, Harry.” Thank Merlin she’d made it sound normal. “A good day for flying, yeah?” As he turned back, his brows lifted in surprise, she immediately wished she could snatch back the words that diverted from their unwritten rules of engagement. _Stick to the script, idiot!_

But to her great surprise, he answered with a wry grin as he shrugged out of his black leather jacket. “Yeah, but a bit foggy and damp.”

As he stuffed his gloves into the pockets and turned back to hang the jacket on a peg, his dark grey turtleneck caressed the sculpted muscles of his back and had Ginny itching to smooth her hands over the expensive-looking fine knit. She bit back a sigh and forced her eyes away as she commanded her feet to continue toward the sink before he turned back around.

“Oh, erm, good match yesterday,” Harry murmured, then ducked his head and ran his hand through his hair as he slipped past her going toward the sitting room.

Ginny whirled, watching him go, her jaw slack. He’d diverted from the script, too. What did that mean?

“Hello, Harry, dear.” Mum’s voice intruded on Ginny’s musing. “Ginny, I need that tray, please.”

As Harry disappeared through the door, Ginny moved as if in a dream to hand her mother the tray, then over to the sideboard to reach around Hermione and get out the cutlery. Was he having a change of heart, or just taking the whole “let’s pretend to be friends” business to the next level? She quickly squashed the surge of hope in her chest. _Take it at face value, Ginny. It didn’t mean a thing except that… except what?_

“When I got to the office yesterday,” Hermione said in an undertone as she hefted a stack of plates, “he said the wireless was on and tuned to your match when he got there. But no one else was there and he stopped me when I went to turn it off.”

At Hermione’s knowing smirk, the hope in Ginny’s chest made another bid for freedom. She struggled to push it back down. “Not helping,” Ginny warned in an equally low voice. “I don’t need to get my hopes—”

“Hermione?” Ginny and Hermione both looked around to find Harry standing at the foot of the stairs with Ron close behind. “Can we talk for a few minutes before lunch?”

“Be right there,” Hermione said, then, as Harry followed Ron upstairs, muttered loud enough for only Ginny to hear, “Uh oh. I know that look. Something’s up with Dolohov.” She set the plates on the table and put a hand on Ginny’s arm. “About the other, you’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t say anything more unless you ask.”

And then she was gone, leaving Ginny to deal with the table settings and the unexpected flash of terror for Harry’s safety that seared through her.

***

Harry rounded the corner on the first landing and almost stumbled to a halt as the view into Ginny’s old bedroom hit him like a Stunner. The door had been closed the other times he’d been upstairs since his return and the unexpected sight sent memories from the Room of Requirement’s version of her room flashing through his mind, more vivid and bittersweet than usual because of the pleasant exchange they’d shared just moments ago. He’d been hoping they could find a way to move back into the easy friendship they’d had as children, and her cautious greeting had lifted his spirits after a sleepless night. But this glimpse into the past awakened more than his brain.

The sound of footsteps—Ron’s above and Hermione’s behind—slapped Harry back into reality, and he moved past the room with a determined stride. He couldn’t afford to get distracted right now.

Ron was already seated on the bed when Harry reached the attic room that still glowed Chudley orange and triggered other memories. He went to the window to put his thoughts back in order while he waited for Hermione to slip in and settle next to Ron. They watched expectantly as he sealed the door and cast several privacy charms, then paced back and forth for a moment to finish clearing his head.

He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you remember I told you when this Dolohov business got started that I had a contact in his camp?” They nodded and Hermione clearly had a million questions already, so he hurried on. “I got a message from him late last night. Looks like Dolohov is getting ready to move back into Britain, but Robards refused to call the team together until Monday morning.”

“What? Why?” Hermione burst out.

“He’s mental, that wanker,” Ron muttered.

“He said the message was too vague, that we didn’t have enough information to formulate a plan. But he’s always tried to discount this contact, so I’m worried that he won’t act at all until it’s too late.”

“What did the message say?” Hermione asked.

Harry drew in a deep breath, already knowing her reaction. “It just said ‘Watch the coasts.’”

“That’s it?” Ron exploded. “Does this bloke _know_ how much coast we have?”

“That _is_ pretty vague, Harry,” Hermione said, her face scrunched into thought. “Maybe there’s a hidden message or spell. Can I take a look?”

“No. I checked. That was the only message. It, erm, incinerated after I read it.” He felt bad about the lie, but he couldn’t risk letting Hermione see the message. Shacklebolt was the only one he’d even dropped a hint to about the identity of his contact. The chance that she would recognize Malfoy’s handwriting was slim, but with Hermione you never knew.

“It’s been a while since you’ve heard from him, hasn’t it?” Hermione asked. “Where has he been all this time? Are you sure the message came from him?”

“Yeah, it’s been nearly two years since I heard from him,” Harry said, starting to pace again—anything to feel like he wasn’t sitting around doing nothing. “I actually wondered if he might be dead. But it’s him. I’m sure.”

“So now what?” Ron asked.

Harry snorted. “Good question.” He fished into his pocket and drew out a miniaturized set of Ominoculars that he returned to full size with a tap of his wand. “I couldn’t sleep, so I flew here under a Disillusionment Charm by way of the coasts and recorded the trip. I didn’t see anything suspicious, but I was going pretty fast. We need to go back over it to see if I missed something.” Ron held out his hand and Harry passed the device over. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to work out a way for a team of six Aurors to cover more than…” He sent a questioning look at Hermione.

She frowned a moment. “It depends. If he’s talking about the whole of the main island, it’s about eleven thousand miles of coast.”

Harry huffed a breath of frustration and ran his fingers up under his glasses to rub at his gritty eyes. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s talking about more than just England. I just hope he doesn’t mean Ireland, too.”

“I’ll start researching remote coastal villages that have characteristics similar to what he’s taken over on the Continent,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

Ron dropped the Ominoculars from his face. “So far, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I’ll go over the whole thing later.”

As they moved into a brainstorming session about how to stretch resources and work around Robards’s inevitable obstacles, Harry's sense of panic subsided a bit. These were the two people who’d got him through the worst challenge of his life. As much as he’d come to trust Summers and Ingalls over the years, having Ron and Hermione back at his side re-centered him and restored his faith that he could face this challenge and win, too… if he could just keep from getting distracted.

***

Harry, Ron, and Hermione still hadn’t come down by the time lunch was ready. Mum yelled up the stairs three times before sending Teddy up to fetch them. When they finally descended, Teddy was perched on Harry’s back, begging to sit next to his godfather, and in the confusion of settling around the table, Harry ended up sitting almost directly across from Ginny.

And didn’t that just blast their rules of engagement to bits? Ginny sank her teeth into her tongue to keep from demanding an explanation.

Harry didn’t even seem to notice. Throughout the meal, he hummed and grunted non-responses to Teddy’s incessant chatter, all the while staring off into nothing and absently shifting his food around on his plate to simulate eating. Occasionally, Ron or Hermione would draw him out of his mental exile with a cryptic comment, but then he would sink right back into the abyss of his thoughts.

Ginny gave up being discreet about watching him, and eventually he looked up and caught her. She forced herself to hold his gaze and gave him a cheeky grin as she nodded at his nearly full plate.

“I’m sure there are some starving children somewhere who’d like to have that if you’re not going to eat it.”

He looked at his plate, then back up at her with a solemn nod. “I’ll owl it to them straight away.”

With a snort, she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, is it that bad? Or are you not feeling well?”

He gave her a crooked smile and leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “No, I just don’t really need seconds and thirds. I’m trying to stretch it out so I don’t hurt your mum’s feelings.”

As he shoveled a fork-full of potatoes into his mouth, Ginny ducked her head and glanced back up at him through her lashes. She tried to think of something to say to keep the conversation going, but Teddy diverted his attention and then he was back to wherever his thoughts had been focused.

Mum soon got up to serve pudding and the family conversation shifted around to the upcoming charity Quidditch match. Harry usually always had something to say or questions to ask about the plans to raise money for the children’s home that he’d finally agreed to let them name in honor of his parents. Today, he was completely oblivious.

“Ticket sales have leveled off,” George said. “We’ve sold about half of the seats and we’ve got deposits for more than two dozen vendor booths, but at this point, we’re only a little beyond covering expenses. We need to do something dramatic to stir up excitement.”

“I ’ave arranged for Dennis Creevey to take pictures of Ginny with the children on Monday,” Fleur said. “We will send them with another press release for the weekend papers, but I ’ave an idea of ’ow we might increase the interest. ’Arry, would you be able to join us for the photo shoot?”

Even with every eye trained on him, Harry stared into space until Hermione kicked him under the table.

“Huh?” He looked around, wide-eyed and confused.

Fleur repeated her question over the burst of quiet chuckles.

“Oh, erm, no. Sorry. Something’s come up at work and it’s going to be mad tomorrow.”

Hermione diverted attention with a question about Wood’s ongoing search for the perfect Seeker for the celebrity team, but Ginny continued to watch Harry as he scowled at his plate. Suddenly irritated, she couldn’t control the demon that took possession of her mouth, even though she did manage to keep her voice calm. “The least you could do is drop by to see the children, you know? Henry asks about you every week.”

She hadn’t spoken loudly, but Harry’s head jerked up as if she’d shouted. Apparently, she’d used up her quota of approved conversation. He kept his voice low, too, but it carried an angry tone. “It’s not as if I’ve been sitting about doing nothing. I’ve hardly been in the country for weeks.”

Stung, she responded before her brain had time to approve. “Well, _excuse_ me! I wasn’t aware that an hour of your precious time was too much to ask.” Without waiting for an answer, she got up to take the empty dishes to the sink as she tried to work out what had just happened and why she was so angry again.

By the time she turned to go back to the table for another load, Teddy and Victoire were pulling Harry out the door to the garden while the charity event discussion continued. Ginny stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned back to the sink to set the dishes to washing, drawing in frantic breaths through her nose to keep her emotions in check. _Bloody stupid wanker! Running away like a coward!_ But she knew she was the one to blame and had probably destroyed her one chance to rebuild any kind of relationship with him.

“He really does have a lot on his plate right now.” Hermione had slipped close with a stack of dishes. “Just give him some space. It’ll be okay.”

Ginny nodded, unable to speak past the knot in her throat. Just give him some time. Just give him some space. Maybe she just needed to disappear altogether. Not that Harry bloody Potter would even notice.

The family eventually wandered off to take naps or play chess or enjoy the last bit of hazy warm weather before the predicted rain moved in. Ginny snuck up to her old room to watch Harry play with the children while she attempted to put herself back in order. She wasn’t really sure why she was hanging around, now that she’d done her duty by putting in an appearance. No one seemed to even realize—or care—that she wasn’t part of any of the chattering groups in the garden or the sitting room.

She jerked to attention from her half-daze as Harry jumped up and trotted into the kitchen, then re-emerged carrying his broom and his and Teddy’s jackets. With a heavy sigh, she pushed away from the window and wandered back downstairs, intending to Floo back to her flat where she could hold her pity-party in private. She stopped for a moment at the kitchen window to watch Harry bundle Teddy up and lead him up the hill to the orchard.

A sharp crackle made Ginny spin around, fumbling for her wand before she realized it was only Ron leaning against the door of the scullery and digging into Mum’s not-so-secret stash of Fortescue’s Finest Decadent Double Chocolate Digestive Biscuits. For years, Mum had kept a package “hidden” behind the cleaning supplies to reward herself when the chores were all done or the burdens of motherhood had become heavy. It was an open secret that everyone knew about the stash and freely plundered it—they just made sure that some were always there when Mum went looking for them.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, Ron,” Ginny said. “We just finished eating. How can you be hungry already?”

“Oo shaid ah’m umrey?” he asked with a shrug, spraying crumbs everywhere. He held out the package to offer her some as he flung his leg over the back of a chair to straddle it and plop down with a grunt.

Ginny shook her head in wonder and sat down across from him. “Where do you put it all?”

She grimaced at the bits of chocolate sticking to his teeth when he swallowed heavily and grinned. “I’m a growing boy, don’cha know?”

“You’re going to be growing the wrong way, if you don’t slow down.”

“Ope,” he garbled around another whole biscuit. “Oork i’ off im raimim.”

She snorted. “Work it off in training. That must be some training program.”

“’ep,” he agreed with another chocolate-spattered grin.

Giving an exasperated huff, she got up and poured him a glass of milk while he downed two more biscuits.

“Thanks,” he said after a big gulp, then licked at the white mustache at the corners of his mouth.

Ginny dropped her chin into her hand and rolled her eyes. “How does Hermione stand it?”

Ron folded down the top of the biscuit package and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I’d never eat like that in front of her. I’d be sleeping on the sofa.”

“Well, I’m glad to know someone has a way to domesticate you, even if it is with sex.”

The tips of Ron’s ears turned crimson, but he grinned wickedly. “Yep. You wouldn’t believe all the things she can make me do.”

Ginny dropped her head into her arms on the table. “Arrrgh! No details! Please! I don’t need those pictures in my head.”

Ron just chuckled and got up to return the half-empty package to the scullery. When he sat back down, he was sucking the chocolate from his teeth as he eyed Ginny seriously. “You did the right thing today. The way you were talking to Harry.”

Ginny froze, watching Ron cautiously. She hadn’t realized anyone but Hermione had paid them any mind. “What do you mean? It was horrible. I got angry. I made _him_ angry. He left. How could that be good?”

Ron rested his arms on the table and leaned forward, drawing her into his gaze. “No, it was perfect, see? He needs us all to act normal, like nothing ever changed. And you’ve never treated him that much different than you treat the rest of us. You say what you think and hex us if you think we’re being prats. Don’t you remember, that time at Grimmauld Place when he was hiding from everyone? After Hermione got him to come out, you were the only one who could really bring him ’round and, if I recall correctly, you didn’t tiptoe around to do it. Don’t back away now just ’cause you think he’ll run. He’ll come back. Hermione and I’ll make sure of that.”

“Ron, he doesn’t want anything to do with me!” Ginny hated the way her voice pitched into a whinge. “I’m not going to force myself on him.”

“No, no. Don’t force him,” Ron’s voice took on a breathy tone of encouragement. “But don’t back away, either. How can he get to know you again if you’re always hiding? Stop avoiding him. Just talk to him like you did today. Today was good, yeah? I know he left, there at the end, but before that, he talked to you like a friend, didn’t he?”

Ginny nodded, frowning as she studied her fingers knotted together on the table. She flicked a nervous glance at Ron before looking back at her fingers. “It’s hard,” she whispered. “To be so close and not…”

Ron reached across the table and covered her hands with his large freckled one. “I know. But you can do it.”

She raised her eyes again as he gave her hands a squeeze and leaned back in his chair with a confident nod. And at that moment, she believed him.

***

Teddy Lupin was having a melt-down. That was the only description for the writhing mass of toddler at Harry’s feet, throwing a temper tantrum that would put Dudley to shame.

Torn between wanting to body-bind and silence his godson or have his own breakdown, Harry watched in stunned confusion, trying to work out what had happened. One moment they were going to go flying, the next, Teddy had thrown himself to the ground filling the air with gut-wrenching shrieks of fury, hair flashing fiery hues, face blotchy and awash with more tears than any three-year-old should contain. What had become of his lovable, easy-going godson? Harry stood frozen in horrified indecision—the need to _do_ something exploded in his gut, but he had absolutely no idea _what_. The instincts that guided him so well in battle deserted him completely when faced with a demon-possessed child. He’d rather face a dozen Dark wizards any day.

“What’s happened?”

Harry cast a look of desperation at Andromeda Tonks, who was strangely calm as she walked toward them with the amused elder Weasleys.

“I don’t know,” Harry said with a bit of a wail in his voice. “We were going flying and he said he wanted to go on the broom by himself. When I told him we needed to get his broom, he said it was for babies and that he wanted to use mine.”

“You told him no, didn’t you?” Mrs. Tonks’ placid voice sounded hopeful as she drew him a short distance away from Teddy so they could speak without yelling.

“Well, of course,” Harry said, his panic increasing at her casual disregard of the tempest before them. “He’s too young. He’d fall off.” Harry didn’t understand the smiles that blossomed on the other adult faces. “Well, he is! I don’t want him to get hurt,” he added defensively.

Mrs. Tonks put a comforting hand on his arm. “You did exactly the right thing, Harry.”

“But... what... how...” Harry sputtered for a moment as he looked despairingly at Teddy. “What do I do? How do I make him stop? Maybe I can charm my broom to—”

“No!” Mrs. Tonk’s sharp tone made Harry look back up. “No, if you give in now, he’ll have learnt that he can get what he wants by doing this.”

Suddenly Harry understood Dudley so much better… and could sympathize—a bit—with Aunt Petunia. But that didn’t solve his problem. He cast another helpless look at Teddy, then back at his godson’s grandmother.

“But how do we make him stop?”

Mrs. Tonks patted his arm and smiled. “We’ll just ignore him. I’ll cast a couple of Cushioning Charms to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself, but he’ll eventually stop when he realizes he’s not going to get what he wants.”

Harry gave her a skeptical look that made her laugh.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. A wistful look passed across her face. “His mother used to do the same thing at this age.”

Baffled, Harry looked back and forth between grandmother and grandson. “So… so I… just wait until he’s through? And then take him flying?”

“Oh, no. He can’t go flying today. Not after this. That way, he’ll remember next time to appreciate the privilege. In fact, I think the lesson will be much stronger if you just go and do something else right now. Otherwise, he’ll realize how upset you are and know how to push your buttons later—you’ll never have another moment’s peace. He loves spending time with you so much, if you leave when he acts like this, he’ll learn not to do it.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “But, that seems so cruel! He’ll hate me.”

“Perhaps for the moment, but he’ll respect you much more in the long-run.”

Harry couldn’t believe what she was saying and looked to the Weasleys for help. They just smiled.

“Come with me, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, putting a friendly arm across Harry’s shoulders. “I have something I’d like you to take a look at in the shed.”

Harry allowed himself to be led away, but looked over his shoulder when Teddy’s screams trailed off. As soon as the boy saw that he had Harry’s attention again, he fell back into his tantrum with a vengeance. Harry looked away quickly and hurried his steps to keep up with Mr. Weasley. As they entered the shed, Harry took one last look over his shoulder to where Mrs. Tonks was picking up a slightly calmer, but still sobbing, Teddy.

Harry leaned against the inside of the door as it closed and let his head fall back with a thunk. “I’m rubbish at this godfather stuff. What was Remus thinking?”

Mr. Weasley’s quiet chuckle was not comforting. “He was thinking that Teddy needed a godfather who would do the best job that he possibly could. He knew you wouldn’t let them down.”

“But I’m horrible! I don’t know the first thing about what a three-year-old needs!”

“No parent does... at least not the first time round.” Mr. Weasley stared thoughtfully into space. “Perhaps not the second or third time… or sixth or seventh, either.”

At Harry’s wide-eyed look of panic, Mr. Weasley smiled. “You’re doing a fine job, Harry. Teddy is just doing what every child does at some point—testing his boundaries. And he’ll likely do it again many times before he’s grown. The important thing to remember is that children _need_ boundaries. And, even if they seem to resent us at the time, they really _do_ want to know that we care enough to teach them how to behave.”

Harry thought again about Dudley and Aunt Petunia. Her attempts to cajole and bribe her son into good behavior had only made matters worse. Harry was surprised at the sudden revelation that, if what Mr. Weasley said was true, she’d actually been a better parent to Harry—if a bit extreme—by shutting him in his cupboard with no supper the one time he’d tried to follow Dudley’s example. He’d hated her at the time, but had eventually decided, after watching Dudley over the years, that getting _everything_ you wanted wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Harry pushed away from the door and walked over to lean against the workbench where Mr. Weasley was rummaging through a box of what looked to be cords for Muggle electronic devices. “How did you do it? With so many children?”

“Oh, it was pretty much trial and error, especially with the first ones.” Mr. Weasley held up the connector end of one of the cords, considered it for a moment, then dropped it back into the tangle and continued rummaging. “And the thing to remember is that being fair doesn’t necessarily mean treating every child exactly the same. They all have different personalities and, therefore, different needs. Bill and Charlie just needed an occasional firm hand, but Percy… well, Percy set his own boundaries—the challenge there was to try to get him to act like a child.”

As he watched Mr. Weasley pause and consider another connector, Harry grinned at the thought of a miniature Percy bossing the others around the garden or writing reports on the quality of his toys.

“Now, Fred and George are not really as identical as they seem,” Mr. Weasley continued. Harry noted the present tense with a pang. “Even though, underneath it all, they both have hearts of gold, Fred is usually the mastermind of their escapades and fearless of discipline. But George is more sensitive and quicker to get his feelings hurt. We had to discipline them the same most of the time because, whatever they were doing, they were in it together, but we tried to treat them as individuals as much as possible. It was tricky, but we did our best… in spite of the fact that they nearly drove Molly to murder almost daily.”

Mr. Weasley shook his head at the box and upended it on the workbench so he could work the snarled cords apart. “I suppose Ron and Ginny were our biggest challenges. By the time they came along, Molly was quite exhausted and poor Ron was at the mercy of the twins. We tried to sort out when they’d set him up, but we weren’t always successful. And Ginny, bless her, being the only girl, none of us knew quite what to do with her. The older boys doted on her and covered for her—she had them wrapped around her little finger… still does, I suppose—so I know she often got away with murder. But she learnt to fend for herself pretty well and turned out all right, I think.”

“Yeah. Quite all right,” Harry murmured.

“Here!” Mr. Weasley triumphantly held up a tiny two-pronged connector. “What do you suppose this attaches to?”

Harry took the connector and studied it for a moment. “Actually,” he dug into his pocket and pulled out a shiny silver rectangle, “it looks just like the charger for my mobile.” He aligned the prongs and slipped them gently into the end of the phone, then held it up for Mr. Weasley to see.

“A mobile? Really? May I?” The look of childish delight on Mr. Weasley’s face made Harry’s heart sing as he handed the phone over.

Hermione had just got them for Harry, Ron, Summers, and herself so they could stay in touch when they were away from the Ministry, where the underground location and powerful magic interfered with the signals. But Harry didn’t think Mr. Weasley could hurt the phone, and the joy in the older man’s eyes as he examined it would make a replacement worth the cost, if it came to that. With a grin, Harry reached over and pressed the call button, then showed Mr. Weasley how to put it to his ear.

Mr. Weasley’s eyes widened comically when a muffled voice came through the receiver. “Hermione?”

Harry tuned out the resulting excited jabber as he thought about what it must’ve been like to raise seven children and have them turn out as well as the Weasleys had. After his disastrous showing today, Harry’s respect for the elder Weasleys expanded exponentially. He’d never get the hang of this godfather business, especially since his time with Sirius had been much too brief and his only parental role models besides the Weasleys had been the Dursleys.

_It might help if you spent more time with Teddy._

Harry flinched at his inner-Hermione voice; she—it—was right. Just like Ginny had been right about his neglecting the kids at the children’s home. But he had a job to do, didn’t he? Wasn’t ridding the world of Dark wizards just as important to Teddy’s and Henry’s well-being… maybe even more so? And besides, he was spending more time with Teddy now than over the past few years.

Harry came back to the present when Mr. Weasley held the mobile under his nose. The older man’s face was crinkled with pleasure. “Thank you, Harry. I’ve always wanted to try one of those. Perhaps I should look into getting a couple for me and Molly.”

Trying to hide the amusement in his eyes, Harry looked down as he returned the phone to his pocket. He’d have to take his Invisibility Cloak to watch that process. It was bound to be entertaining. And watching Mr. Weasley teach Mrs. Weasley to use it would be priceless!

Mr. Weasley returned to untangling his cords and, as he pulled them free, Harry wound them into small coils and secured them with a binding charm. They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Mr. Weasley began speaking as if their earlier conversation hadn’t been interrupted.

“The thing about a big family, though, is that the dynamics can become very complicated. At any given time, one person may have needs that overshadow the needs of the others… or sometimes the needs of two or more people may conflict.” He paused for a long moment as a shadow passed through his eyes. “After Fred died,” —Harry’s lungs suddenly grew thick— “George needed time and space to grieve. But Molly needed desperately to hold onto and nurture her remaining children—especially George. I don’t know what we would’ve done without Ginny to serve as a buffer and see to George whilst I tended to Molly. I know the rest of the family was hurting as well, but those two had the greatest needs at the time.”

Mr. Weasley didn’t look up and his hands never stopped moving, but Harry was acutely aware of a sudden change in the atmosphere. Part of him wanted to bolt for the door, but he held himself still, knowing he deserved whatever pain Mr. Weasley’s words might inflict.

“And that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Mr. Weasley said quietly, keeping his eyes on his task. “Just because one child needs extra attention, doesn’t mean that you love the others less… or that you would send them away. Even if the cause of the problem was a disagreement or misunderstanding between the children. You love them all, even while you have to tend to the needs of the one in the most pain.”

Mr. Weasley turned, then, with a look full of sorrow and regret as he placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. Unable to hold the gaze, Harry dropped his eyes to the workbench. This was it, then. They were sending him away again. But Mr. Weasley’s next words were even more painful.

“We failed you, Harry, and I need to let you know that we’re sorry.”

Harry shook his head and tried to step aside, but Mr. Weasley’s grip tightened and Harry couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

“No, please, Harry. Let me say this.” Mr. Weasley waited for Harry’s jerky nod, then drew a shaky breath. “The moment Molly saw you on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, her heart told her that you needed a mother, and ever since, you’ve been one of ours as surely as if she’d borne you herself. There is nothing you can do to change that. But I’m sorry that we never made that clear to you. Especially when…”

He stopped and swallowed thickly, “Especially when Ginny was so ill. Her needs at that moment were greater and we had to tend to her, so we asked that you give her some time… and I’m afraid we neglected your needs. We never meant to send you away, Harry. You’re as much a part of this family as anyone named Weasley. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to buy it. You don’t have to… to marry into it. You just have to _be_ it. And I hope that you’ll accept that and let us be there for you when you have needs… like learning how to be a godfather. You’re doing a fine job. Don’t doubt yourself for a minute. But Molly and I—and the rest of the family, as well—would love nothing more than to help you in this or in anything else—and I do mean _anything_ else—whenever you need it.” 

As his vision blurred, Harry quickly closed his eyes against the sudden burn and gave another jerky nod, unable to speak if his life had depended on it. Mr. Weasley seemed to understand and patted his shoulder before slipping quietly out of the shed door. Harry clung desperately to the workbench to keep his legs from buckling and tried to make sense of his thoughts and emotions. This was not how things were supposed to go. How was he supposed to keep his distance when they kept wrecking the protective walls about his heart and offering him his deepest desires?

He didn’t have time for this… this… whatever this was. How could he have let down his guard? He was slipping, allowing himself to relax too much—hell, he’d been all but flirting with Ginny today. He needed to focus, damn it! He had a job to do. And once this international team defeated Dolohov, he could get back into the field where he’d be safe from this emotional onslaught that he had no idea how to handle.

Harry remained in the shed for what seemed like hours, though it could have been days or only minutes. Facing any of the Weasleys right then just wasn’t an option—at least not without melting into an emotional puddle—and every instinct was shouting for him to escape. Even though he knew it wasn’t right, he flung open the door, threw his leg over his broom, and launched himself into the air.

***

Harry slammed into his office, sending the door open against the wall with a resounding crash as he hurled the Memisphere against the opposite wall. The glass orb exploded and the misty memory of his second flight along the coast evaporated. Harry wished he had another sphere to throw at the wall. Or, even better, several more to fling at Robards’s head.

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione scolded as she and Summers followed him into the room and closed the door behind them. “This isn’t going to—” 

“HOW THE BLOODY HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GET ANYTHING DONE IF HE’S GOING TO BLOCK EVERY MOVE?” At Hermione’s cringe, Harry ran his hands into his hair and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath to gain control of himself. After a moment of stony silence, he cleared his throat and pitched his voice much softer as he flicked a regretful glance her direction. “Sorry. Not your fault.” 

Summers snorted. Harry glared at him.

Hermione just shook her head and moved to set down the stack of parchment still clutched to her chest. “At least Robards said the team could monitor the villages we’ve identified as similar to those on the Continent.”

“The point is,” Harry said tersely, “ _I’m_ supposed to be in charge of this investigation. Why is he allowed to say what we can and can’t do?”

Summers flopped into a chair. “Aren’t you meeting with the Minister this afternoon? Maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“Right. Running to tattle on that old troll will really enhance my leadership image with the Minister, not to mention that Robards will find a way to get back at me.”

“You don’t need to go looking for another confrontation with Robards, Harry,” Hermione said. “It’ll only make matters worse. We just need to get more information. Have you tried again to get in touch with your contact?”

Harry grimaced and fingered the still cold Galleon in his pocket, his only means of contact with Malfoy… if the git even still had his. “I’ve been trying since I got the note from him. I’m hoping he’ll agree to a meeting, but I’m not holding my breath.”

“So, what are we going to do then?” Summers’ voice held a familiar tone of challenge.

Harry smirked at the mischievous glint in those blue eyes. “Guess we’ll switch to POP mode.”

Hermione looked suspiciously between them. “What’s POP mode?”

Summers gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Potter Operating Procedure—completely mental and under the monitoring charms, of course.”

Harry braced himself for the lecture as she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. After a tense moment, she let out an exasperated breath. “I’m familiar with it. We just didn’t have a name for it. So, what’s the plan?”

Harry grinned as Summers crowed with delight. “I knew I liked this woman! Merlin, I wish I’d been in your year and house at school. You lot had _all_ the fun, I just know it!”

Sobering immediately, Harry shared a look of understanding with Hermione before she shook her head at Summers. “Didn’t feel like fun at the time.”

“Come on,” Harry said, anxious to change the subject. He waved them to follow him as he summoned a map of Great Britain from the shelf and rolled it out on the conference table. “Hermione, can you mark the villages you’ve identified?”

With a wave of her wand, a half-dozen dots glowed red on the map.

“Good, now can you show us where all of the lighthouses are?”

She paused a moment, then muttered a spell as she passed her wand over the image again. What looked like more than a hundred pulsing yellow dots sprinkled the coasts of England, Wales, and Scotland.

Summers let out a low whistle.

Harry nodded. “That’s what I was hoping for. What if we set wards around them to monitor the presence of wizards?”

“Not sure that will work,” Summers said, still staring in awe at the map. “The alarms would be going off constantly, especially near the villages with both Muggle and magical populations.”

Harry slanted his eyes at Hermione. “Can they be tuned to Dark wizards?”

She frowned and walked about the table, studying the map. Summers opened his mouth, but Harry held up a hand to stop him, wanting to give Hermione time to think. She finally looked up. “Probably… and we might be able to connect the wards to cover the stretches between the distant lighthouses. I’ll have to do a bit of research.”

They spent the next three hours batting about ideas and discussing who among the Auror team they could enlist to help and trust not to inform Robards of their plans. Harry had every intention of keeping the Minister up to speed—if asked—but he didn’t want to tip his hand any sooner than necessary.

By early afternoon, Summers had raced off to catch his Portkey to the French field base and Hermione had left to delve into her research. Harry had a couple of hours before his meeting with the Minister, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate on the Italian and Austrian team reports that had arrived by owl. After half an hour, he finally gave up and decided to recopy the memory he’d destroyed earlier.

Focused on the flight he’d made from Exmouth nearly to St. Ives after leaving the Weasleys’s, he pulled the thread from his mind and dropped it into the Pensieve in preparation for making the copy and transferring it to a new Memisphere. But, as if pulling the memory from his head had left a void that needed filling, everything else that had happened the day before flooded his thoughts.

He had spent the better part of the flight trying to blow away Mr. Weasley’s words—kind though they were, Harry just couldn’t bring himself to accept that they would welcome him back so willingly. Surely he’d have to atone for all the pain he’d caused everyone. There had to be more than just _being_ part of the family… even if he wanted to. He’d already proven that letting his emotions have free rein played havoc with his concentration on finding Dolohov. It would never work.

By the time the rain had started, he’d tucked the conversation into the box he kept in his mind for such purposes and decided that he’d keep attending the Weasley gatherings—mostly to keep Ron and Hermione off his back—but that he’d work harder at keeping his distance. He just couldn’t afford to let go like that.

Unfortunately, he’d found it impossible to dismiss Ginny’s words as easily. She hadn’t said much to him, but the comment about neglecting Henry and the other children had sliced through him like a knife. So when he’d Apparated back to London from the coast, he wasn’t at all surprised to find himself on the pavement in front of the hedge leading to the children’s home. They’d all been so happy to see him that his determination to keep his distance emotionally had dissolved almost immediately. He might have a driving need to keep them safe, but _they_ seemed to think his attention was equally important, if not more so... just like Ginny had said.

Pushing his thoughts away with an irritated growl, Harry flicked his wand to copy the memory and insert it into the Memisphere. He didn’t have time for this shite! He had a job to do!

_But the children need you…_

Harry dropped his head into his hands. Why couldn’t he make this go away?

_…and you could do so much more to help them. Fleur wouldn’t have asked…_

He groaned in defeat.

Slashing a Tempus Charm into the air, he grimaced—just over an hour until his meeting with the Minister. Maybe he had time… With a frustrated huff, he grabbed his Auror robes and threw them on as he bolted for the Atrium Apparition Point.

***

Ginny ran her fingers through three-year-old Sally Bloodworth’s silky hair, criss-crossing the locks into a long, flat plait down the back of her head. The whole thing could easily be done with magic, but Ginny found the weekly ritual with the girls at the children’s home to be soothing and they certainly seemed to enjoy it, the way they excitedly lined up to have their hair done in Ginny’s signature game-day style. Hermione had said that they liked it because children need to feel a regular loving touch to grow into well-adjusted adults. Ginny thought they just all enjoyed the attention… just as the boys, who wouldn’t let her get anywhere near them with a comb, enjoyed their fast-paced games of ground Quidditch.

Ginny chatted with Sally, trying to give Dennis Creevey some nice interaction shots as she finished securing the plait with a Harpies-green and gold ribbon. After about an hour, the children had finally got used to the non-stop whirring click of the camera and were going about their business as usual while Fleur directed the shoot in soft tones over Dennis’s shoulder.

When Sally crawled into Ginny’s lap, thumb tucked into her mouth, to watch the other children play, Ginny wrapped her arms around the little girl and snuggled the tiny warm body to her. They weren’t doing this for the camera—Sally always waited to be last in line so she could have some “cuddle time.” As Fleur and Dennis moved to another part of the garden to take pictures of Madam Mason and her mother serving juice and biscuits, Ginny rested her cheek against the top of Sally’s head and allowed her thoughts to roam back to where they always seemed to go when left to their own devices.

When Harry had left without saying a word yesterday, she was convinced he was still angry about their exchange at lunch. The knots in her stomach had persisted even after Ron’s reassurance and the overheard conversation between her parents—Dad must’ve said something to upset Harry, too. She’d had no business chastising him for not spending time with these children. As Hermione had said, he had enough to be going on with.

But when she’d walked through the hedge this morning, Henry had nearly knocked her down in his exuberance to tell her that Harry had come the day before and played with them until suppertime. Had Ron been right? Had Harry really come to see the children because of what _she’d_ said? If so, she’d do it again in a heartbeat just to keep that happy look on Henry’s face. And maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could keep up the friendship act long enough for it to become real.

“Giiii-neeeee. Come ooonnnn.”

At Henry’s whinge, Ginny jabbed at the ticklish spot in his ribs that sent him skittering away with a yelp, then steadied Sally as he dislodged his little sister. “You’re so impatient, Mr. Bossy.” She got to her feet and yelled to the other children, “Okay, everyone who wants to do drills, line up.”

Within seconds, more than a dozen boys and girls had formed several rows in front of her, holding their arms out to get the right amount of spacing between themselves. Even though they’d already been playing hard and probably didn’t need the warm-up, she’d established the routine to teach them the proper way to prepare their bodies for Quidditch so they’d keep it up when they got onto a Hogwarts team. When the children were all ready, Ginny led them through their usual series of stretching exercises while Dennis circled the group, furiously clicking away.

“Okay,” Ginny called once they’d finished the routine. “Catch and pass.” She picked up the Quaffle at her feet and kneaded it with her hands as she pivoted slowly, watching the children form a circle around her. When they were all in position, she made one more complete revolution, then without warning sent the red ball through the air. “Matthew!”

Six-year-old Matthew fumbled it only slightly and whipped it back to Ginny. She immediately sent it flying to another receiver, modifying her passes to accommodate the younger and less able children. The drill continued until each child had had a turn and she shouted, “Go!” The children trotted around the circle, catching and passing on the run. They’d done this so many times that few of them ever missed, so she was shocked when Henry, who was doggedly determined to _never_ miss, let the ball bounce off his fingertips as he stopped dead still and stared across the garden.

“Harry!” Henry screamed and took off, followed quickly and loudly by the rest of the group.

Ginny spun around and gaped at Harry, resplendent in his crimson Auror robes, standing just inside the hedge being mobbed by the crowd of children while Dennis worked madly to capture the moment.

“Per’aps ’e thought of a reason to come after all, mmm?” Fleur said as she nudged Ginny toward the mayhem. “Come. Let us capture ’im before ’e escapes.”

In a daze, Ginny followed, her mind awhirl over this unexpected turn of events. He’d come to see the children. Twice. Was it really because of what she’d said? She jerked herself out of her daze as she caught the end of what Harry was telling Fleur.

“…can’t stay long. I have a meeting with the Minister.”

“Then we must make the most of your time,” Fleur said. “Dennis, what do you need?”

“We could do some one-on-one shots with some of the kids, then, erm… Do you mind playing with them?” Dennis gestured at Harry’s uniform. “I mean…”

Harry glanced down at his red robes. “Oh! I can take these off. I’ve got a t-shirt on underneath.”

“Leave them on for now and let’s do a few shots on the bench over there. Henry and Matthew come along.”

Harry gave Ginny a quick smile as he followed Dennis and the children. She belatedly remembered to smile back and watched his progress across the garden. Maybe Ron was right—treating Harry as a friend might actually help bring him back into the fold… even if they never became a couple again.

When the clamoring children finally broke into her consciousness, Ginny pushed her thoughts away and began organizing them into teams for the ground version of Quidditch that the older Weasley boys had concocted before they were able to convince their mother to buy them brooms. Ginny had adapted the game to the larger group, using more than three Chasers on each team when necessary. They used the standard Quaffle, but the two pillow-soft Bludgers were inanimate and charmed to send the Quaffle flying when they hit a player carrying it. This version of the game didn’t use a Snitch since the children all preferred to be in the thick of the action, although Ginny did occasionally lead them in drills to familiarize them with Seeker’s skills in case any of them wanted to play the position when they got older.

They’d just got the teams sorted when Harry, Henry, Matthew, and Dennis came over to stand at the magical red line that delineated the makeshift pitch. In her role as referee, Ginny tossed Matthew a gold mesh shirt and Henry a green one to indicate which teams they were on.

“Harry’s on my team,” Henry announced.

“That’s not fair!” Matthew protested, quickly joined by his gold-clad teammates.

“I’ll just watch,” Harry said over the shouts.

“No, I need to get some shots of you playing with them,” Dennis said. “Why don’t you play on one team and Ginny on the other?”

The children broke into cheers of approval, even though Harry responded with a slight frown. Ginny tried to gauge his reaction for a moment before remembering her decision to treat him as she would any friend… or brother. She cocked an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Potter? Scared?”

Surprise flickered over his face, so fleetingly she almost missed it, but then his eyes glittered with challenge. “You wish,” he said, stripping off his uniform robes to reveal the nicely-filled black t-shirt and trousers beneath. She gasped as the sight sent a twinge of need coursing through her, but Harry didn’t seem to notice. He turned toward the green-shirted children clustered behind Henry. “Come on, team. Let’s have a little strategy meeting.”

Ginny quickly reined in her desire and held her own strategy session, then called both teams back together to outline some new rules—she and Harry could pass the Quaffle, but they couldn’t steal or shoot goals.

And the game began with a vengeance.

At first, things seemed to go as usual—both teams fighting for position, Bludgers flying, and only a couple of minor tussles that were quickly resolved. But the children soon learned that she and Harry were the perfect weapons for scouting over heads to spot free receivers and throwing the Quaffle across the pitch faster. Harry did a brilliant job of making sure that all of the children got a chance to play.

But then, as the Quaffle came her way, Ginny saw him break into a wicked grin and shout, “Three!” All at once, three of the green-clad players were wrapped around her, trying to strip the Quaffle from her grip. She was taller than the children, but not by as much as Harry, so she had to struggle to pass the ball to one of her teammates. Harry laughed with glee as she fell to her bum when the players pushed away from her and took off after the ball.

She gaped at him for a moment from her seat on the ground, as much surprised at the joyful laugh directed at her as she was by his team strategy. They hadn’t broken the rules, but she’d never taught the children to play that aggressively, mostly to keep the smaller ones from getting hurt. Now, however, he’d thrown a gauntlet she couldn’t refuse.

Ginny jumped to her feet, swatted a couple of times at the dust on the back of her practice uniform, and glared at Harry, who was exchanging high-fives with his team over the goal they’d just scored. “So that’s the way you want to play, is it?” She tried to sound threatening, but failed miserably when Harry grinned and waggled his eyebrows at her. “You’re on, then. Time out! Gold team, over here!”

She spent a moment or two huddling with her team, whispering her plan and deliberately bending over to display her dusty backside in Harry’s direction. When she turned around, his eyes flicked quickly away from her—at least part of her plan had worked. With a smug grin, she signaled her Keeper to toss the ball and restart the game.

The two teams played more furiously than ever, passing and catching with greater precision than Ginny had ever dreamed possible. She waited patiently for the right opportunity, making sure to immediately pitch away the Quaffle whenever it came to her so the green team wouldn’t have another chance to bring her down. Finally, after each team scored another goal, she saw her chance.

“Now!” she shouted as Harry held the Quaffle, seeking out his receiver. Before he could react, the two closest of Ginny’s team were on him, one jumping onto his back, the other grabbing him around the knees. In a flash, he went down, clutching the ball to his chest and rolling so he didn’t land on the children. The remaining gold players pounced into the fray. Ginny couldn’t help but grin at Harry’s giddy laughter and pleas for mercy coming from beneath the pile, which soon included almost as many green team players.

“Okay, okay. That’s enough,” she called after several moments. “Let him up.”

The children rolled away and separated into giggling groups. Harry stayed on the ground, the Quaffle clutched to his chest and a smile on his face as he worked to catch his breath. Ginny stood over him with her hands on her hips.

“Not… fair…” he huffed between gasps for air.

She grinned. “Nothing in the rule books against it.”

Harry laid the Quaffle aside and pushed himself to a sitting position, one arm locked behind him for support, the opposite knee bent, as he settled his glasses back into position, still breathing heavily. “They’ll never be able to use tickling in a real game, though.”

Ginny shrugged. “But they had fun doing it today, yeah? And it kept you from getting your pass off. Admit it—it was brilliant strategy.”

With an exasperated shake of his head, he smiled up at her. “Yeah, it was brilliant.”

Ginny’s grin widened and, without thinking, she offered a hand to help him up. His smile faltered as he looked at it, but just as she realized what she’d done and was about to snatch her hand back, he took it and levered himself to his feet.

He didn’t let go.

His calloused hand felt warm, the thumb caressing her knuckles sparking a blaze of desire that raced through her veins. Time stopped as their eyes met, the green depths smoldering with hunger—the hunger she’d seen twice before and longed to satisfy with every part of her being.

But she had no time to respond. In a flash, his face shuttered and his eyes went cold as he dropped her hand.

“I’m late. I have to go.”

Stunned, she watched him gather his robes, say his goodbyes, and slip through the hedge without looking back. She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she turned away from the shrubs to find Fleur watching her with a calculating look. Ginny deliberately gave her attention to the nearest group of children, shaking off the sense of despair that threatened to take over. She’d been friendly. He’d responded. She couldn’t let herself expect more.


	44. Accepting the Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry faces up to the challenge of being part of the family while keeping his distance from Ginny. And Ginny accepts a challenge of her own.

Harry landed his broom on a rocky outcrop overlooking a deserted stretch of beach on the northern coast of Scotland. The icy wind whipped his hair and stung his face as it sliced like frozen daggers through his layered Muggle clothing, but he ignored the elements and took his time, carefully scanning the sand below, looking for any sign of human—or wizard—activity. Not that he really expected to find anything. None of the lighthouse wards had been tripped. None of their lookouts had reported anything suspicious. He really had absolutely no reason to be here.

He was just stalling.

A week had passed since the conversation with Mr. Weasley and the encounters with Ginny. Since then, Harry had done a fine job of burying himself in work—setting the lighthouse wards, making trips to every Auror base on the Continent, teaching the Wednesday morning training class, watching and rewatching Pensieve reports… anything to keep his emotional demons at bay.

Of course, Hermione hadn’t let his abrupt departure on Sunday go without comment, although he did manage to dodge the full lecture until late Tuesday evening and had been able to get through the mostly one-sided conversation without giving her any details. But one point she’d made _had_ stuck—in his haste to escape, he hadn’t even considered that he’d offended Mrs. Weasley by leaving without saying goodbye. He sent her a note of apology, claiming that something from work had come up. It was the closest he could get to the truth, since he _had_ scouted more of the coast after he left, and he couldn’t very well tell her that he didn’t want to be part of her family. That would actually be the bigger lie. He _did_ want to be part of the family. More than anything in the world. He just couldn’t. Even if he couldn’t seem to remember any of the reasons why anymore.

Or maybe he could remember only the most important one.

What had he been thinking, going to the children’s home like that on Monday? He’d known Ginny would be there, but Merlin, did she _always_ have to look so good? And why had she suddenly taken his “let’s be friends” idea to heart? He’d made the suggestion when he thought he’d be around for only a week. But now… well, okay. He _did_ still want to be friends. Or have _some_ sort of positive relationship with her… anything that would give him an excuse to be around her and talk to her occasionally. Friendship was the only option. It had even worked for a bit on Sunday and even better during Quidditch with the children on Monday—Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. But then she’d offered her hand to help him up. His instincts had screamed at him not to take it, but he’d thought it would seem unfriendly and things had been going so well…

Touching her had been a colossal mistake. The moment he’d felt that familiar hand slip into his like a missing piece of himself, the spark of desire she’d ignited when she bent over to huddle with her team had erupted into Fiendfyre in his gut. He’d never been more grateful to be able to say he was late for a meeting with the Minister, although the real cause of his tardiness had been the few minutes he’d taken to… calm himself.

Harry snorted softly. He really _had_ to stop running away like that. If he couldn’t learn to control himself in those situations, then he had to stop putting himself into them. But, of course, that would mean he’d need to avoid Ginny and _that_ would mean not going to the Weasleys’s on Sunday… and that would hurt Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

And he just couldn’t do that. Not on purpose, anyway.

With a groan, Harry sank to the rocky ground, wrapping his arms about his knees and dropping his head onto them. The family should be nearly ready to sit down to eat by now and, if what Mr. Weasley said last week was true, they’d be starting to wonder about his absence. Knowing how badly his defenses had been damaged, Harry dreaded going back to face them. But he couldn’t bear the thought of staying away, either.

And there was the crux of the matter. He cared about the Weasleys—loved them dearly, in fact. As a child he’d chosen them as his family, and they seemed stubbornly determined to choose him, too, no matter how hard he tried to prove them foolish for doing so. He couldn’t imagine why they would want him, but now that they’d drawn him back in, he also couldn’t imagine never seeing them again.

Lifting his head to rest his chin on his knees, Harry looked out over the water… and quietly admitted defeat. He couldn’t fight them any longer.

But with this surrender came the more important battle: how to control his growing obsession with Ginny.

No matter how much he wanted her, he wasn’t right for her. They’d already tested and proved that theory and he couldn’t allow himself to entertain even the slightest temptation to go down that road again. But cutting her out of his life altogether was apparently not an option, either. She was part of the family, too.

He’d just have to work that much harder to be friendly, but not _too_ friendly. They could be friends. He could make it work. He’d _have_ to make it work.

***

Harry stopped outside the Burrow kitchen door and took a deep breath to prepare himself for the scolding he was sure to get for being late. But he needn’t have worried. With their attention on the explosive scene at the other end of the room, no one seemed to notice him slip in.

Harry didn’t need to understand French to know that Fleur was furious. Bill was standing next to her, patiently repairing and handing back the dish she was repeatedly smashing on the floor as Mr. Weasley tried to distract an understandably upset Victoire. Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Tonks tisked madly between themselves at the stove. George, Angelina, and Hermione huddled in a whispered conference just inside the sitting room door. Percy, Audrey, and Teddy were watching Fleur in wide-eyed amazement while Ginny sat in her regular chair, silently staring at her hands in her lap.

Keeping his eyes on the room, Harry set his broom behind the door and took off his jacket. Ginny flicked a glance in his direction then immediately dropped her eyes and curled in on herself as if she wanted to disappear.

“You’re late, mate,” Ron’s voice was low and close to Harry’s ear.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked without taking his eyes from the scene.

Ron grunted a humorless laugh. “Guess you haven’t seen the _Prophet_ , then?”

Harry shook his head and looked down at the folded paper Ron shoved into his hands. The headline all but jumped from the page.

**Potter and Weasley Practicing for Parenthood?**

Beneath it, a photo showed Harry sitting on the ground smiling up at Ginny, then taking the hand she offered to help him up, and continuing to hold it as they stared into each other’s eyes once he was standing… and the loop started again.

His stomach churning, Harry watched the picture play out once more before remembering to breathe, mostly in relief. The photo was too grainy to clearly show their expressions and his stance hid his physical reaction.

He unfolded the paper to find a second picture that had to have been magically created from two different ones: he and Ginny were sitting on a bench that they’d never sat on together; she was holding a little girl; he was talking to a little boy he knew was Henry, even though both of the children’s faces had been blurred to hide their identities. Harry’s heart all but stopped at the sight. This was how they could look one day with their own family, if only… he slammed the brakes on that train of thought and forcefully kept his expression blank. That scenario wasn’t an option.

He couldn’t bring himself to read the entire article that followed—the first two paragraphs speculated that Ginny was carrying his baby ( _Ha! Not a chance!_ ) and that they were planning to adopt the two war orphans to fulfill his immediate need for a large, Weasley-esque family. The charity Quidditch match wasn’t mentioned.

“Everyone sit down,” Mrs. Weasley bellowed over the chaos. “You’ll be able to solve this problem better after a proper meal.”

“’Arry! You ’ave come.” Once she’d seen him, Fleur was on him in a heartbeat, dragging him to sit next to her in a chair directly across from Ginny. “You must know that is not the photograph that I sent. The original was from a great distance when the children were tickling you. That ’orrible Jasper Jinks ’as cut it down to this. They did not even mention the Quidditch until the very end, and it is on page thirteen! I cannot believe…”

Harry tuned out the rest of her rant as he suddenly understood the reason for Ginny’s demeanor. She was apparently blaming herself—or was worried that he did. Either way, he hated that look of defeat. The need to _do_ something flared in his chest.

“Fleur?” Harry raised his voice a bit to cut into the ongoing diatribe. “Fleur!” When he finally had her attention, he held up the newspaper and kept his voice calm. “Can you spin it? Make it work?”

The room went silent. He didn’t have to look directly at her to know that Ginny’s head had snapped up and she was staring at him with wide eyes, but his next words were directed to her as much as to Fleur. “Look, you know I don’t read this rubbish. I gave up years ago worrying about their ridiculous obsession with my private life. As long as the people I care about know the truth, I’m really not fussed about what anyone else says or thinks. But the charity match is important to the kids at the home. So, if this—I mean using us together… as friends… not the…” He didn’t quite know how to finish that thought so he plunged ahead. “If it’s a good way to stir up interest for the home, let’s do it.” He turned, then, to look across the table. “If Ginny doesn’t mind, of course.”

Ginny stared at him for so long, Harry had to force himself to hold her gaze. The air in the room seemed grow thick, as if everyone were afraid that breathing would ignite the tension.

“It’s fine,” Ginny finally said, giving him that blazing look he’d seen so many times before. But he had a feeling that this time it meant something entirely different.

“You are certain?” Fleur was looking back and forth between them. “We may not be able to manage everything with… oh, what is the word?… correctness. They may wish more to focus on the... mythical romance.”

After another moment of consideration, Ginny shrugged. “As long as they include the Quidditch match, I suppose that won’t matter.” But then her eyes twinkled with cautious mischief. “I’ve been paired with worse people in the press.”

Harry couldn’t hold back his wry grin. “Don’t I know _that_ feeling?”

Her answering smile was tentative. “Oh, yeah? _Witch Weekly’s_ had me with Marcus Flint for months and _Wand-r-lust_ says I’m doing Gwenog and Celestina Warbeck—at the same time.” Her grin took on a wicked edge. “But of course, they also say _you’re_ doing the Minister these days.”

With the crisis over, everyone laughed in relief and began passing dishes as Harry snorted, then put on his best thoughtful expression. “Well, but you know… now that I think on it… Kingsley’s _not_ really all that bad on the eyes... Although, his wife might object.”

The laughter turned to groans and Harry had to duck as Ron threw a roll at his head. “Ah, come on, mate. Aside from Dumbledore, you know the worst one you’ve been paired with is Malfoy.”

“What?” Panic buzzed through Harry’s brain at the name that had been on his mind so much lately, but he quickly realized that it was coincidental and gave Ron a frown. “When was that?”

Ron grinned. “Right after you testified at his trial. Don’t you remember that secret love affair you’d been having since fourth year? All the press reported it, you know.”

“Fourth year?" Harry sputtered. "I was fourteen! I’d only just started noticing _girls_!"

“Oh, no, you were _well_ into girls by then,” Ron said with a smirk. “As I recall, Skeeter had a huge feature on how the evil, gold digging Miss Granger broke your heart when she threw you over for Krum.”

That remark earned Ron a cuff on the back of the head from Hermione and sparked a lively recitation by the entire family of other reported love interests for Ron and Hermione as well as Harry and Ginny. Harry was grateful for the lighter atmosphere and the way that his greater than usual participation in the banter was accepted with no more fanfare than a nod and a wink from Mr. Weasley and an exuberant hug from Mrs. Weasley as she went back to the stove for more food.

After the talk turned to other topics and the two of them fell out of the spotlight, Ginny caught his eye and leaned forward to murmur across the table. “You’re really okay with this?”

Harry paused a moment to choose his words carefully—being friendly, but not too friendly wasn’t easy. “Fleur’s good. I know she can turn it around to emphasize that we’re friends working together for a good cause. And it’s for the kids, yeah? If you’re okay, I’m okay.”

She studied him as if searching for any doubt or deception. Harry dug deep to maintain his casual-but-concerned expression. After a moment, she nodded in agreement and returned her attention to her meal. He breathed a small sigh of relief, but didn’t relax his guard until long after the conversation had moved on to other topics.

By the time the talk turned to the Harpies’ chances in Saturday’s match against current league leaders Puddlemere United, most of the family had wandered off to pursue their usual Sunday afternoon interests. Harry dawdled over his treacle tart, listening but not joining the debate that pitted Ginny and George against Ron and Angelina.

“Ginny, I know you’re the best Chaser in the league,” Ron said, “but Wood hasn’t let more than three goals get past him all season. Unless Hargest catches the Snitch early, the Harpies are doomed.”

“You’re wrong,” Ginny protested. “I’ve watched him. He favors the left. I’ll score on him before the first minute is up.”

George raised his glass. “Here! Here! Ronniekins, just because you fancy yourself a Keeper doesn’t make you an expert on the position. Ginny’s going to wipe the pitch with that tosser.”

“Oh, come on!” Ron argued. “George, you played with him at Hogwarts. You should know how driven he is to win.” Suddenly Ron whipped around to face Harry. “Tell them, Harry. You played with Wood, too. Tell them how good he is. She might score on him once, but she’ll never get it past him more than that.”

Startled, Harry desperately tried to squelch the part of his brain that had been busy (without permission) fabricating alternate scenarios for Ginny’s passionate expression and taut muscles. Lacking proper guidance, his mouth defaulted to the usual course of action and stepped up to the challenge. “Wood’s really good. He’ll adjust.”

Ron cackled as Ginny lifted her chin and set her jaw, her eyes alight with determination. “You’re wrong. I’ll score on him at least ten times.”

Harry squashed the thrill of desire that raced through him and kept his face carefully still. But the fire in Ginny’s eyes and the tenacity on her face were too much; he just couldn’t resist poking the dragon. “You willing to wager on it?”

He’d barely got the words from his mouth before she snapped, “How much?”

Still working to control his imagination, Harry spoke without thinking. “I don’t need your money. Let’s make it more interesting.”

“Interesting?” She narrowed her eyes and looked past him. “All right, if I win I get your broom.”

Surprised, Harry glanced over his shoulder at the prize in question standing in the corner by the door. The Lightning Streak had been specially engineered and built for him right after the war and the manufacturer would sell them to no one but him. He could easily replace it and would have given it to her outright if he’d known she wanted it. But he knew she’d rather earn it.

He turned back and nodded. “Okay. And what do I get if I win?”

Her eyes grew large and her jaw dropped, as if she’d expected him to refuse. She finally stammered out, “Lifetime Harpies tickets.”

He snorted. “Already got ’em. The league sends them to me for every team.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, then. What do you want?”

He ducked his head and frowned to simulate concentration as he picked at a hangnail on his thumb and worked to quell the flush that rose at the mental image of her splayed naked on his bed. His mind raced for an alternative—something that would approximate the value of the broom and give her enough incentive to win. Because he really wanted her to win… and the idea of her thighs wrapped around his broomstick did nothing to help his thought processes.

“Hmmmm. What do I want?” His eyes darted about the room and came to rest on Teddy, his hair the vivid green he usually wore when Harry was around, calmly licking the remains of his treacle tart off of his spoon. Harry smiled and looked back at Ginny. “If I win, you color your hair green…”

Ginny gaped at him in shock. Ron and Angelina burst out laughing.

“…for the rest of the season,” Harry finished, locking his eyes on hers as he lifted his glass in a mock toast.

She closed her mouth and glared at him. “You’re on. And you can present that” —she pointed at the broom— “to me in the middle of the pitch after the game.”

He couldn’t stop his cheeky grin. “Gladly. Unless I’m there to watch you change your hair.”

***

Ginny dashed through the door of the Leaky Cauldron and gave Tom a passing wave as she hurried down the hall to the room in the back. Hefting her pack higher on her shoulder, she silently cursed Fleur and George for calling a meeting on a Wednesday night. Practice had been grueling. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to soak in a hot tub with a glass of wine and then collapse into bed. But, according to Fleur’s note, publicity for the charity match wasn’t going as planned and, with time growing short, they needed to regroup.

The rumble of voices washed over Ginny as she pushed open the door. Her sixth sense told her immediately that Harry wasn’t in the room, but she did a double take when she saw George, Gwenog Jones, and Oliver Wood in the corner with their heads together as if they were plotting a Ministry coup. She could only hope it was something that innocuous.

Ginny dropped her bag by the door and headed toward the buffet table at the end of the room, nodding a greeting to Hermione and Fleur sitting at the central table. Fleur looked wrung out, with dark shadows under her eyes and swollen feet propped on a chair as she idly stroked the fabric stretched taut over her rounded stomach. Ginny wondered how she could possibly last two more months.

Maneuvering among several scattered chairs, Ginny made her way over to where Ron and Angelina were sampling from an array of pasties, sandwiches, sweets, and bottles of Butterbeer dripping with condensation.

Ginny grabbed a bottle and jerked her head to indicate George’s corner of the room. “That’s a scary group. What are they on about?”

“Dunno,” Ron said around a mouthful of something. “Been like that ever since Wood got here.”

A sudden thought hit Ginny and she gave startled gasp. “Oh, Merlin! Ange, you don’t think George will say anything about my wager with Harry, do you? I just thought about how… Oh, bollocks, that’s not illegal is it?”

Angelina shook her head. “No, it’s probably not completely ethical, but it’s not illegal. At least there’s nothing in the rulebooks about players making private wagers with no Galleons changing hands. And you know Ludo. He’s not exactly a stickler about the rules on gambling anyway.” This last was said with a disgusted sneer. “You remember how he took advantage of Fred and George at the World Cup.”

Ginny nodded and heaved a sigh of relief mixed with a liberal dose of pity. Angelina had been toiling away as an assistant in the Department of Magical Games and Sports since she’d left Hogwarts. Everyone who cared knew that she was the brain in that department, but Ludo Bagman continued to take advantage of her and claim credit for her work. Ginny hoped that one day the powers-that-be would wake up and give Angelina the promotion she deserved.

Ginny cast another worried look at the far corner. “But George won’t say anything, will he?”

“No. I warned him not to, but I’m sure it wasn’t necessary,” Angelina said with a smirk. “He wouldn’t want to tip anyone off about your motivation for running up the score on Saturday, now would he? He won’t admit it, but I think he’s placed a couple of wagers of his own.”

As George called everyone to the table, Ginny nicked a sandwich and dropped into the chair next to Angelina on the side of the table facing away from the door. Gwenog and Wood were on the other side of Angelina, with George at the head of the table, Fleur next to him, and Hermione and Ron across from Ginny.

“I guess everyone’s here who’s coming?” George sent a questioning look at Hermione.

“Harry’s in France. I don’t know if he’ll be back before we finish, but I left a note for him to come if he can.”

Ginny didn’t have time to ponder why George seemed so pleased at that news before he launched into the business at hand. “Well, then, let’s get started. So far, we’ve sold a bit more than half the tickets, but with just over two weeks until the match, we’ve got to build a bigger fire under the cauldron to bring this thing to a boil.” He gestured to Fleur. “What’s going on with the press?”

Fleur gave a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, they are less interested in the children and the Quidditch than they are in the…” she sent an apologetic glance at Ginny, “…romance. If I ’ad known, I would never ’ave…” She stopped and angrily shook her head, muttering something in French that no doubt shouldn’t be translated in polite company. “I think if we wish to redirect attention to the Quidditch and the raising of Galleons, we must purchase advertising.”

As the discussion about budgets and ad placements got started, Ginny’s mind drifted to the “romance” the press was so obsessed over. What she and Harry had could be called anything _but_ romance, although she supposed it was closer to friendship than it had been in years. He’d been much more relaxed last Sunday—whatever Dad had said the week before must have made an impact—but even though he was apparently more open to being part of the family, he didn’t seem inclined to include Ginny in the concept. During their two brief exchanges he’d remained distant and distracted, as if his thoughts were worlds away. She’d only challenged him about that ridiculous wager and asked for his broom to get a rise out of him… she’d never dreamed he would agree. But it hadn’t seemed to make him any less distant, and she was tired of trying to puzzle out why he would be almost friendly one minute and backing away like she’d hexed him the next. She knew what she thought it _might_ mean, but she just couldn’t afford to indulge in false hope anymore.

Fingers of the depression she’d been fighting for weeks stroked the edges of Ginny’s mind. She had to focus hard to force them away and turn her attention back to the discussion around her.

“Buying adverts is all well and good, but we need something really _big_ to bring the flocks to the ticket booth. Otherwise, we’ll end up owing more money than we raise.” George swept a gaze around the table, lingering only briefly with an indecipherable look at Ginny before turning fully to Oliver Wood. “You have to get Potter to play. He’s the only one who could draw in the crowds that we need to make this work.”

Suddenly alert, Ginny stared at him in shock. George had no right to even _think_ such a thing after the way he’d been treating Harry. But this certainly explained the earlier smug look. He couldn’t have started this conversation if Harry had been here.

“I’ve asked him, several times,” Wood said, although Ginny got the feeling that he and George had already had this conversation and they were just repeating it for the sake of the group. “In fact, I’ve been stalling on finding a Seeker in hopes that I could convince him. I need some help getting him to change his mind.”

As several ideas were bandied about, Ginny grew increasingly irritated at the way they were discussing Harry like he was nothing more than a promotional tool. And to top it off, Ron and Hermione were just sitting there, not joining the conversation but not doing anything to stop it, either. As his best friends, they should be defending him.

Eventually George noticed their silence. “You two know him better than anyone. How do we get to him?”

After a moment’s silent consultation, Ron gave Hermione a small shrug. She frowned, but eventually gave him a slight nod, apparently approving whatever decision they’d reached. Ron finally looked at George. “He really hates to be in the spotlight, you know, but I… well, if we… erm, pointed out how much it would help the kids.” He sent Hermione a helpless look and she chewed her bottom lip for a moment before nodding again. Ron looked at Wood. “I reckon we could try to talk to him.”

Ginny gaped at them. They were selling Harry out! How could they do that?

Suddenly, angrier than she’d been in ages, she stood and slammed her hand down on the table, making everyone jump. “I can’t _believe_ you! You’re his best friends. How can you be part of this? You’re supposed to be the people he can turn to for protection, the ones he can count on to accept him for who he is, not use him for his fame. You _know_ how much he hates that! And you!” She pointed at George, who had the grace to look ashamed. “You won’t give him the bloody time of day unless it’ll turn a profit. You’re no better than Dumbledore, using him like a tool. He’s a person, damn it, not some bloody marketing icon! He’s already said he doesn’t want to play. Can’t you be satisfied that he gave you permission to use his name? Merlin, he already gave his _life_ for you once! Do you have to suck out his soul, too? I am _not_ going to sit here and let you do this! It’s not right! It’s just not right!”

The room was deathly silent except for the creak of the door. The way Fleur, Ron, and Hermione’s worried eyes darted to a point behind her, Ginny knew without looking who had come in. Stomach plummeting, she briefly closed her eyes. She just wasn’t up to putting on a happy face tonight.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

In a heartbeat, Ginny made her decision. “I have to go.” Without looking at anyone, she whirled around, sidestepped Harry, grabbed her bag, and all but ran down the hall and out of the pub.

***

Harry stared at the door Ginny had just slammed behind her and felt his already dwindling energy whoosh away like air from a deflating balloon… which had absolutely nothing to do with Ginny’s departure. Nothing at all. It was just that the trip to France had been unproductive and frustrating and, now, he’d walked in on an obviously contentious conversation and the busy week was catching up with him. He ran his fingers wearily under his glasses, wishing he’d gone straight home to his cushy armchair and a mug of hot cocoa. Steeling himself to stick it out, he turned toward the room.

“What’s going on?” Harry repeated into the heavy silence as he surveyed the group, surprised to see Oliver Wood and Gwenog Jones among the faces at the table. From the way everyone averted their eyes, he had no trouble working out what—or whom—they’d been discussing. The only other question was what was “just not right” about him?

He locked his eyes on Hermione and waited. After an interminable moment she looked up, flicked a glance toward George (a warning, maybe?), then turned pleading eyes back at Harry.

“It was nothing,” she said. “Just a difference of opinion. We’ll sort it out later.”

Heaving an inward sigh, Harry nodded that he’d understood her request to leave it for now and sent her a look meant to convey that they _would_ talk later. But he might put it off... maybe for several days… or maybe indefinitely. Maybe he didn’t really need to know at all.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, mostly to diffuse the anxiety in the air. “What have I missed?”

While George recapped the decisions they’d made earlier, Harry shrugged out of his red outer robes, snagged a bottle of Butterbeer, and dropped gracelessly into the chair Ginny had vacated. He could still feel the warmth she’d left behind. _No, can’t go there._

“So, we’re going to have to buy advertising. Do we have the money?” Harry asked, brushing away his errant thoughts.

George grimaced. “Yeah, but it’ll make a good sized dent in the proceeds.”

“Fleur can authorize a draft from my Gringott’s account to cover it,” Harry said almost before George had finished speaking. “What else can I do to help?”

In spite of George’s casual dismissal of the offer, the glances that passed around the table practically screamed that he’d hit upon the touchy topic. Harry took a deep draw on his drink and, thankful for the fieldwork that had taught him to read people, scrutinized the faces he could see. Most of them held something closely akin to guilt and he wondered exactly what they could’ve been discussing before he came in that would produce that look.

“The advertisements will ’elp,” Fleur said, bringing Harry back from his investigation. “At least, then, we will be in control of the message and possibly be able to use it as leverage to decrease the coverage of… inappropriate speculation.”

Harry snorted. Not a chance.

“Yes, but we’ve got only two weeks,” George said. “Unless we can come up with something really big—a way to stir up a _lot_ of excitement _really_ fast—this thing will be about as successful as Umbridge’s last popularity contest.” He pinned his eyes on Harry as everyone else found other places to look.

And the pieces fell into place. Harry took another drink as he considered the revelation—they needed more than just his name to make this project a success and, for some reason, they were hesitant to ask. Of course, knowing how much he hated his fame, Ron and Hermione _would_ look guilty if they’d been party to such a discussion. In fact, that’s probably what he’d walked in on. Ginny had apparently been his only defender. The realization sent a rush of warmth through him. _Don’t go there!_

The irony was that she hadn’t really _needed_ to defend him. He didn’t _like_ using his fame under most circumstances, but for rare occasions, he would permit it, and even use it himself for things that were important... things that would help others. He still wasn’t sure that he could do what they wanted… it had been far too long… but the idea had refused to be pushed away, especially with those guilt-laden pleas coming by owl every other week… and it really _had_ been far too long…

Harry leaned over so he could look down the table at Wood. “Do you still need a Seeker?”

“YES!” Wood jumped from his seat and pumped his fist in the air, then turned to Harry with wide eyes. “Wait! You’re offering, yeah?”

Harry nodded and the tension in the room evaporated like a weak Patronus. George gave him a curt nod that seemed to convey approval.

“Gwenog. Oliver,” Fleur said, seeming to perk up from the weariness Harry had noticed when he sat down. “We may make the announcement after the match on Saturday, yes? The press will be there, already. And the crowd! We must do it on the pitch. _Ce sera magnifique_!”

Harry leaned back in his chair with a sigh, withdrawing from the excited planning. At least they wouldn’t need to waste the children’s money on advertising now, unless this announcement didn’t raise the interest that everyone else seemed to think it would. The idea that the world would go mad just because he’d decided to play Quidditch boggled his mind. He still didn’t understand what everyone saw in him—he was just a skinny, speccy git who’d got lucky a few times and had some really good friends to help him out. What was the big deal? He drained his drink and set the bottle on the table, his weariness returning ten-fold. Rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, he beat back his impulse to run and hide. He’d signed up for this. He’d see it through.

The meeting broke up and as everyone stood to gather their things, Ron and Hermione appeared at his side.

“Harry, we’re sorry. We should’ve—”

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” Harry cut her off gently. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to do it.”

Hermione’s brow creased. “But we still should’ve said something before… like Ginny did.” She quirked a wry smile. “She really tore a strip off of us about taking advantage of you.”

Not really wanting to pursue that line of thought, Harry gave her a grim smile and nodded at the corner where George, Gwenog, and Wood had their heads together. “What are they plotting?”

“Dunno,” Ron said. “Been like that all evening.”

Harry grunted a humorless laugh. “Something tells me it can’t be good. Reckon I’d better go and break it up. I need to talk to Wood, anyway.”

He waved a goodbye and slipped quietly toward the corner, hoping to overhear their devious plans, but George spotted him before he got into range. As soon as Wood looked up, he yanked Harry out of Gwenog’s hearing and launched into a frenzied litany of ideas and instructions about training, making Harry feel like he’d taken a time-turner back to third year. By the time Harry finally got a chance to point out that he wouldn’t be able to attend practice more than once or twice at the most, the room had cleared. Wood continued to spout strategy all the way down the hall and blocked Harry’s path to the Floo once they’d reached the main room.

Harry had meant to try to be firm but polite about taking his leave, but a glimpse of white-blonde hair ducking through the door leading to Diagon Alley ended that plan in a heartbeat. Jerking out of Wood’s grip, Harry dashed for the door.

“Gotta run. I’ll owl you my schedule,” Harry called over his shoulder. He couldn’t let Malfoy get away.

By the time he reached the wall, the final bricks were sealing themselves shut. Swearing under his breath, he Apparated to the other side and quickly scanned the area, then sprinted after the hooded figure turning the corner into Knockturn Alley.

Harry skidded to a stop at the entrance to the seedier part of the wizarding district and peered down the darkened street. Malfoy had disappeared. Harry wanted badly to continue the pursuit, but his Auror robes would shine like a beacon, even in those shadows, and he had neither the energy nor the desire to take on those who would love to challenge the “Saviour.” Besides, rousting the riff-raff would probably only send Malfoy deeper into hiding.

But at least he knew that the git was in the area and might make contact soon. Or perhaps finding a reason to haul him in for questioning would be the better plan—Harry would get his information, but Malfoy’s cover would still be intact. Yes, a visit to the Parole Office was definitely on the schedule for first thing in the morning.

***

Ginny slumped into her usual seat at the back of the team meeting room. After she’d been made a starter, she’d never seen the need to move to the front row just to lord her higher status over the reserves and new recruits—they were all part of the same team and working toward the same goal, weren’t they? And, besides, one of her best friends was a reserve who’d gone out of her way to make Ginny feel comfortable when she’d been a new recruit. Sitting in the back next to Kelby was loads more fun than in the front next to Flo. Ginny still didn’t like that arrogant bint, even if they _were_ able to play together effectively.

“What time did you get here?” Kelby sank gracefully into her seat and set a cup of coffee in front of Ginny.

“Dunno,” Ginny mumbled around the sleeve she was running over her forehead to keep the sweat from dripping into her eyes. “Erm.. five? Half four?” She shrugged and winced as the gulp of hot coffee burned her tongue. “Thanks,” she added, raising her cup in a brief toast before taking another drink.

Kelby rolled her eyes. “You’re working yourself into an early grave, you know. You need to sleep _some_ time.”

“Can’t. Might as well practice,” Ginny grumbled into her cup.

“Yeah, and what’s all that practice going to get you besides a stay at St. Mungo’s?”

“More than ten goals against Wood and a new broom,” Ginny said without batting an eye. “I was working on a couple of new moves. Wood’ll never know what hit him.”

Kelby shook her head in exasperation as Gwenog called the meeting to order and started going over the day’s training plan. Ginny sipped at her coffee, propping her head on her hand and letting her gritty eyes drift shut as she listened. Her body _was_ exhausted, even if her brain wouldn’t let her get any real rest. After the previous night’s confrontation, she’d got her hot bath and _several_ glasses of wine, which had allowed her to eventually shed her agitation and fall into a restless sleep. But by three o’clock, she’d been wide awake again and, after an hour of tossing and turning, had been unable to endure the turmoil in her head any longer. Flying had cleared away the worst of the circular arguments and self-chastisements running through her brain, but Gwenog’s next words brought the previous evening back with the force of a Wronski feint gone wrong.

“All right, then. You all know that the charity match for the children’s home is coming up on November 17. At the beginning of the season, you voted to make the Harpies a major sponsor by playing as the host team, so unless you have a signed Healer’s excuse from the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s or a death certificate with your name on it, I expect you here and ready to play at nine a.m.” She cast a pointed look at Flo, who crossed her arms and scowled as Gwenog continued. “The game starts at noon.

“For those of you who’ve been living with your heads in your arses for the past three months and haven’t seen the papers, we’ll be playing a celebrity team” —she made air quotes with her fingers— “captained by Oliver Wood, who, I’m sure you’re well aware, doesn’t play just for fun. He’s recruited a couple of heavy hitters from other teams—Flint, for one—and lured a couple of stars out of retirement. Catriona McCormack,” Gwen had to raise her voice over the gasps of surprise and excited murmurs that erupted, “will play Chaser for at least the first part of the game. She might be in her 70s now, but in her time, she led her team to two Cups and played on the Scottish National team thirty-six times. _Don’t_ underestimate her!” Gwen paused a moment to allow the buzz to die down. “And, then there’s Ludo Bagman.” She had to stop again to wait for the laughter to die down, then added drily, “I reckon Wood thought we needed comic relief.”

The hilarity pitched even higher, but Gwenog quickly called them back to order. “Now, even though Wood is going to do his best to make this a real contest, we all know that this event is intended primarily for entertainment and nothing he can do in the next three weeks is going to bring his celebrities up to our standards… although I will say that he’s just signed a Seeker who might give us a run for our money. I can’t say who, yet—we’ll announce it after the match on Saturday.”

Ginny’s head popped up, even as she struggled to contain the wild fury that flashed to life in her chest. They’d done it. After she’d left, they’d pressured him into playing. How _could_ they? Ginny balled her fists to control her rage and glared at her captain, but Gwenog refused to acknowledge the challenge as she continued speaking. “As I was saying, Wood won’t have time to bring his team up to our standards, but we do want to give the fans a decent show, so I’ll be shaking things up a bit. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself playing a position you don’t usually play or sitting the bench so others can have a chance to show their stuff. Just remember it’s all for a good cause.”

The excited murmuring broke out again, but all Ginny could hear was the blood rushing through her head. She was aware of Kelby watching her with a worried frown, but she couldn’t speak right now or she’d lose it completely.

“Well?” Gwenog shouted over the din. “Why’re you still sitting there? We’ve a match to get ready for. Go!”

As the team started filing toward the door, Ginny pushed her way into the crowd. She really needed to get out before she said or did something she’d regret.

“What’s wrong?” Kelby grabbed Ginny’s elbow and murmured into her ear. “Are you okay?”

Shaking her head and pulling out of Kelby’s grip, Ginny plunged for the door. But before she could make it, Gwenog shouted again. “Weasley! Stay!”

Ginny halted at the door and stepped out of the way of her teammates, but didn’t turn around as she dragged in ragged breaths to calm her rage. Once everyone else was out, Kelby gave her arm a squeeze and shot her an encouraging look before disappearing through the door and pulling it gently shut behind her.

Biting her tongue to keep it in check, Ginny slowly faced the front of the unnaturally silent room, but kept her eyes lowered so she wouldn’t be tempted to lash out. When the silence held, she risked a glance from beneath her lashes at Gwenog.

“You haven’t talked to your brother, have you?”

Startled as much by the gentle tone as the choice of words, Ginny looked up and shook her head. “I had a headache when I got home and went to bed, then left early this morning.”

The answering stare pierced like a knife, but Ginny steeled herself against it. Gwenog finally gave a non-committal hum, then answered Ginny’s unasked question. “Potter volunteered of his own accord. No one asked him.”

_That git! And after she’d made a bloody fool of herself standing up for him!_

Swallowing her shock and anger, Ginny determinedly kept her face blank but couldn’t keep the quiver from her voice. “Well, that’s good, then.”

Gwenog nodded. “Your brother—George, isn’t it?—thinks that tickets will sell out now, and they won’t have to buy adverts. Of course, that remains to be seen.”

“Of course,” Ginny said, keeping her voice as bland as possible.

“You’ll be with us on the pitch when we make the announcement Saturday.” It was definitely not a question, so Ginny just nodded as Gwenog gave her a speculative look. “Exactly what _is_ your relationship with Potter?”

The bold question took Ginny completely off guard. What she wouldn’t give to know the answer. With a small sigh, she shrugged and looked down to concentrate on pulverizing a clump of mud with the toe of her boot. “He’s… well, he’s mostly like another brother, I suppose.”

“So, him playing in the match won’t affect your performance?”

Ginny’s head snapped up with a gasp. “Of course not! I’ve played with him loads of times—and beat him, too!”

Gwenog nodded her approval. “Just checking. What time did you get here this morning?”

The non sequitur rattled Ginny and her face flamed. “Erm… five?”

“Why?”

Throwing back her shoulders, Ginny met the accusing glare steadily. “Wood’s the best keeper in the league. I wanted to work on some new moves so I can wipe the pitch with him.” That was the honest-to-Merlin truth, although she saw no point in sinking deeper into the boiling cauldron by admitting that her greater motivation was a potentially improper wager.

Gwenog pressed her lips together for several long moments before answering. “I can’t say I’m not happy about your improved performance this year and I’d love to blow Wood’s bollocks off on Saturday, but I’ve warned you before about overtraining. You’re no good to me exhausted or injured. You’ll leave when practice is over from now on and I’d better not catch you in the air before the rest of the team in the mornings.”

It was Ginny’s turn to press her lips together, to keep from saying something she’d regret, as she again nodded her acceptance.

“I mean it, Weasley. Don’t make me suspend you.”

Ginny’s eyes widened at the threat. Surely Gwenog wouldn’t… yes, she would.

“Then I’d better get out there and train while I can, yeah?” Ginny didn’t bother to try to keep the cold sarcasm from her voice.

Gwenog raised an eyebrow. “So, why are you still standing there?”

Spinning on her heel, Ginny stalked through the door. She’d _had_ it with Harry bloody Potter! He made her life difficult without even trying—and he’d been doing it for _far_ too long. Well, she’d show him! She’d show them all!


	45. Minor Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle of wills isn't limited to the Quidditch pitch.

Harry rolled the stem of his goblet between his fingers and thumb, watching the liquid slosh gently from side to side as he let the sound of quiet conversation and silverware clinking against china drown out Hermione’s lecture on the benefits of red wine. She wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t listening; Ron was being attentive enough for both of them.

Harry would much rather have stayed in for their usual Friday dinner, but he couldn’t begrudge his best mate the chance to avoid sleeping on the sofa. Hermione had been unsubtly hinting for days that she wanted to try Diagon Alley’s newest upscale restaurant, so in a blatant attempt to make up for some transgression he’d committed, Ron had made reservations. The alias he’d used had kept anyone from tipping off the press beforehand, so they’d been able to walk in the front door unaccosted, but it hadn’t stopped the inevitable commotion once they got inside.

With its minimalist décor of muted taupes, rose marble, and etched glass, _Nectar_ was different from the places where they usually dined. Harry preferred the old-world feel of _Rules_ , but he grudgingly admitted that this place wasn’t terrible: the food was decent (if also minimalist), the table secluded, the wait staff efficient and unobtrusive. And, with Ron doing his best to enact all _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_ in one evening—and Hermione eating it up—Harry had plenty of time topuzzle over the one secret that he couldn’t share with anyone.

Malfoy.

Harry’s trip to the Probation Office yesterday had been unsettling. How could he _not_ have known that Malfoy’s probation had ended more than two years ago? The DMLE had continued to monitor Malfoy and his mother for nearly a year longer, but had stopped when the pair settled into a modest cottage north of London and, aside from the occasional trip to Diagon Alley, kept to themselves.

Of course, the fact that Malfoy hadn’t been caught doing anything wrong in more than two years meant just that—he hadn’t been caught. Harry knew that Malfoy _was_ doing something wrong. But, with no hard evidence, hauling him in for questioning would require revealing his informant status to Robards, and Harry didn’t trust the Head Auror enough for that. He supposed his next move would be to start tailing Malfoy to find out what he was up to; nothing like living sixth year all over again.

“Harry! Hey! You in there?”

Ron’s fingers snapping in front of his glasses jerked Harry back to reality. “Sorry. Thinking about work.” He lifted his glass to his lips and vanished a “sip” of wine.

“I was asking if you wanted to meet at the Burrow and go with us to the match tomorrow.”

“Oh, erm… yeah. I suppose that would be best.” Harry dropped his eyes to concentrate on setting his glass down exactly within the circular indention it had left on the linen tablecloth. Part of him was beyond excited about watching Ginny play; the other part was terrified at the prospect of having to guard his emotions from her family for what could be hours. He’d really rather take a dose of Polyjuice and blend into the crowd so he could react openly to the game, but his wager with Ginny and the charity match announcement had wiped out all possibility of that. “Are you coming to the match, Hermione?” Harry asked to divert attention.

She sighed. “I suppose I should. Don’t get me wrong. I _do_ want to support Ginny and I need to be there for the announcement. But I just keep thinking about how much I could get done at the office with no one there.”

Harry slapped a hand over his heart and affected a hurt look. “What? Are you saying you can’t work with me there?”

“Not you, you prat. It’s just a lot easier without the memos and owls flying in and the Floo flaring every few minutes.”

“Hmph!” Harry crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair as if insulted. “That’s Prat, Sir to you. And as your boss, I’m ordering you to take a day off and relax. If _I_ have to, then you have to.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, Prat, _Sir_. If that’s what it will take to get _you_ to relax, then I’ll do it gladly.”

The conversation drifted from Ginny’s match to the charity match while they lingered over their dessert. When they got ready to leave, Harry let Ron pay the bill for a change—he was the one who’d be reaping the benefits, after all.

As they made their way toward the front door, Harry grimaced at the crowd of paparazzi that had collected on the pavement outside the windows... which was exactly why he preferred Muggle restaurants. Hermione decided she needed to visit the ladies’s, so he and Ron settled against the wall next to the cloakroom. A moment, later the front door burst open, spewing in a cacophony of shouts and the thoroughly jostled subject of Harry’s earlier thoughts. The door shut, cutting off the noise as Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, wearing identical haughty looks of disgust, straightened their robes and turned to glare down their identical noses at the maître d’.

“Malfoy!” Harry had called out and started across the room before his brain caught up. The startled look of terror and wince of pain that crossed Narcissa’s face before she pulled her mask back into place slapped him into a more cautious approach, especially with Ron tense as a bowstring at his shoulder.

“Potter. Weasley,” Malfoy spat. “I wondered who was to blame for the vermin outside.” The venomous drawl was familiar, but something seemed off.

Harry spared Ron a quick warning glance before putting on his best apologetic face. “My apologies. Will you allow me to pay for your dinner to compensate for your trouble?”

Malfoy curled his lip. “We don’t need your _charity_. Come, Mother.” He yanked at Narcissa’s arm, and made to move past Harry.

When Narcissa’s lips tightened slightly, Harry realized that Malfoy’s vice grip had caused her earlier wince.

He sidestepped to block their path. “Oh, come on, Malfoy, it wouldn’t be charity.” He infused his voice with friendliness and smiled at Narcissa. “I owe your mother much more than dinner. In fact, I really need to talk with her about that in more detail. Would it be all right if I—”

“No, it would _not_ , Mr. Potter.” Narcissa cut him off with a steely tone completely at odds with the fleeting look of entreaty she shot him as she turned her head just enough so that Malfoy couldn’t see her face. “And I would appreciate if you would cease accosting us in public. You know how the press is. They delight in making much of things that are _not_ _as they appear_.” Her emphasis on the last few words was subtle but clear.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Malfoy sneered and jerked once more on his mother’s arm as he gestured to the maître d’ to lead them to their table.

Harry watched them go, his brain whirring at lightning speed. Even allowing for Malfoy’s need to exploit their old animosity for show, something was very wrong with this picture.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?”

Harry had almost forgotten that Ron was standing there. “Dunno. What do you make of it?”

“Just that Malfoy’s become more of a rabid ferret than he was in school. Did his mum look scared to you?”

“Yeah, she did. Should we do something?”

“Do something about what?” Hermione asked as she slipped underneath Ron’s arm.

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “We just saw him with his mother. Something was off.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione groaned. “ _Please_ don’t tell me we’re going to go through _that_ again.”

Harry crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, Harry, we know you were right,” Ron said, giving Hermione a quelling look. Surprisingly, she dropped her eyes and Ron looked back at Harry. “But Mrs. Malfoy didn’t say she wanted help. In fact, she point blank told you to leave them alone. What excuse would you give Robards if we—” he grunted as Hermione’s elbow jabbed his ribs, “—if _you_ just went charging in and it was nothing?”

Harry stared off toward the dining room, even though he could no longer see the Malfoys. He couldn’t let it go, but he couldn’t do anything about it now, either. “You’re right, I guess.” He gave them a crooked grin. “So, do we brave the vultures or find a Floo?”

“Floo,” they said in unison.

Harry gestured for them to lead the way, casting a final look over his shoulder before he followed.

***

Ginny stood astride her broom in the passage to the pitch, listening to the roar of the crowd and waiting her turn to shoot into the air when the announcer called her name. The Harpies’ marketing team had put her last in the introductions queue this year—a clear indication of her star status—which meant she had to pay attention and blast her way past the fireworks cannons before they set her broomtail alight. Usually, Ginny found the pre-game hype nerve-wracking, but today not even the sight of Creepy Montague and his goons lounging in their usual spot by the fence just beyond the security guards could penetrate the bubble of calm she’d conjured around herself.

She’d been up before dawn and flying drills as the sun crested the trees. After making a fool of herself over Harry on Wednesday night and getting reamed by Gwenog on Thursday, flying these past two mornings had been as necessary as breathing to put her in the right frame of mind for this moment. Yes, Gwenog would be furious if she knew, but one of the first things Ginny had learned from the twins was to listen for the loopholes—Gwenog’s exact words were “I’d better not catch you in the air before the rest of the team in the mornings.” So Ginny had just made sure not to get caught.

Besides, she had needed to be well into her “zone” before the match started or she’d never be able to best Wood. And best him, she would. Her mind was focused, her body thrumming and perfectly primed. Her only concern was whether the Snitch would be caught before she had time to make her ten goals—all the more reason to strike hard and fast.

As Val took off for the pitch, Ginny centered herself at the passage opening, savoring the final moment of peace before the battle began. Unlike the distraction she’d felt early in the season while anticipating Harry’s return, his certain presence in the crowd today only deepened her confidence. This was her chance to prove to him and to her brothers and to the rest of the world that she was strong and fearless... that she didn’t need a man to protect her… to complete her. She’d show them all that Ginny Weasley was a woman who could take care of herself.

_And rounding out the Harpies team… Chaser Gin-neeee Weas-leeeeee!_

Ginny kicked hard and launched herself into the air as the crowd went wild and explosions rocked the stadium. This match would go down in history.

***

Nodding his thanks to the security guard who’d escorted him to the Weasley box, Harry propped Ginny’s prize in the corner by the door and scanned the small room, automatically taking note of the exits—the door behind him and the window overlooking the pitch. The box wasn’t elaborate, which surprised him a bit since George had been the one to rent it and George usually went for something… flashier. But this was still nice, decorated in greens and golds, divided unevenly by a narrow aisle that separated a counter with snacks and drinks spanning the right wall and tiered rows of cushy chairs that took up the left side of the room.

Harry had his own box three decks up—one in every stadium, in fact, courtesy of the league—but he’d never seen it and didn’t plan to. It was probably crawling with photographers, anyway, and maybe they wouldn’t be able to find him here.

Right.

As he heard the Weasleys finally coming up the stairs behind him, Harry moved out of the doorway and dropped into the corner chair in the back row. Apparently someone had thought announcing that he was coming to the match would be a good idea… maybe so for the Harpies’ attendance and the charity match promotions, but not for him and the Weasleys. He’d been grateful for the VIP entrance that had kept the mob scene to a minimum. Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys seemed to take the madness in stride, but after two years of being away and able (with the help of Polyjuice) to move about freely, Harry was continually surprised by the utter chaos that erupted whenever he tried to mingle with the general public. And when the three of them were together…

“Hey, Harry.” Ron beckoned from the aisle as he gathered drinks and snacks from the counter. “Move to the front row. The girls aren’t going to pay attention anyway. They can sit back there.”

Harry thought about arguing, but saying that he didn’t like to sit with his back exposed and would rather hide in the shadows would raise questions he didn’t want to answer. With a resigned sigh, he climbed over the two rows of chairs in front of him and flopped into the one closest to the wall.

Plopping down in the next seat, Ron unloaded the food onto the window ledge and held out a bottle of Butterbeer. Harry took it and leaned forward to check the sky. Even though the day had dawned crisp and clear, iron-grey clouds were rolling in, bringing a sharp cool breeze and muting the kaleidoscope of colors in the stadium. Without the glint of sunlight to mark its location, the Snitch would be hard to find. This could be a long match.

A camera flash off to the side drove Harry back into his seat, his shoulder pressed against the wall. He couldn’t see much of the pitch from this position, but once the match was underway, the action would be in the air and he’d probably stand up most of the time anyway. Until then, he settled in with one foot on the window ledge and drank his Butterbeer. As he let the family’s chatter and sounds from the stadium wash over him, his mind wandered to the events of the previous evening.

After the encounter with the Malfoys, he’d parted ways with Ron and Hermione at the restaurant Floo and managed to stay in his armchair at home, staring blindly at the fire, for nearly an hour before giving in and going to the Ministry to find out the location of the Malfoys’ cottage. But Ron’s caution about having to explain everything to Robards had been only part of the reason Harry had done nothing more than identify the protective wards and find a comfortable place to watch the house. Two years in the field had tempered—somewhat—his penchant for leaping without looking. Malfoy might not want to be an informant any longer and Narcissa might really be in danger. Harry needed more information before doing something that could make matters worse.

As usual, surveillance was downright boring. The lights in the windows came on and went off as the Malfoys arrived home and retired for the evening. Harry had spent the rest of the night staring at the dark, silent house and puzzling over the encounter at the restaurant, trying to work out exactly what had been off about Malfoy. For all of his faults, the git had always seemed protective and respectful of his mother… until last night. If even Ron had noticed, Narcissa’s fear must have been real, but Harry couldn’t decide if she was afraid _for_ or afraid _of_ her son.

When the sun had turned the horizon gold, Harry had reluctantly given up his post and headed home for a couple hours of rest, but his brain hadn’t let him actually sleep. Now, he ran a finger under his glasses to scrub at one burning eyelid and took another sip of his drink to try and wake up a bit. Perhaps coffee would work better.

“Potter!”

Whoever had forced George back into civility hadn’t insisted on sincerity. Before turning around, Harry made sure his face didn’t show his annoyance at the way his surname always sounded like an insult lately.

George held up Harry’s broom. “You planning to use this to get to the pitch after the match?”

Harry eyed him warily. “Hadn’t thought about it. Why?”

“Think about it. Maybe with a bit of flash.”

Harry barely held back a snort. Just what he wanted to do, call more attention to himself. “Flash,” he said, his tone flat. “Yeah, that’s me all right.”

The trademark twin-grin appeared on George’s face, if not in his eyes. “Ah, come on. Just pretend you’re chasing Dark wizards, dodging spells. Give the crowd a taste of what they’ll see at the charity match. It’s for the kids, yeah?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, looking for any sign of insincerity about helping the kids, but found nothing he could question. After a moment, he shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

George set the broom back down without breaking eye contact. “You do that.”

Ignoring the challenge in George’s voice, Harry turned back toward the pitch just in time to hear the announcer introduce Oliver Wood, the last of the Puddlemere team. The sea of blue on the opposite side of the stadium swelled like a wave, gold bulrushes waving madly over their heads. Wood whooshed down before them, paused for a perfect Starfish and Stick maneuver that drew even wilder cheers, then plummeted to his place as captain next to the referee.

As George settled into the seat behind Ron, Harry glanced back. “That what you had in mind?” He couldn’t keep the note of disgust from his voice.

George snorted. “Not hardly. Just wait.” The last word was drowned out by the cheers that erupted as the first of the Harpies emerged from the passage beneath the left-hand goal posts.

Harry stood with the rest of the family to applaud and, out of habit, did a scan of the room to note who was where: Bill and Mr. Weasley filled out the rest of the front row on the other side of Ron; George and Angelina sat in the middle of the second row. Fleur had charmed away the arms between two of the chairs on the back row so she could put her feet up while she talked with Hermione—neither of them would even be here if it weren’t for the charity match announcement after the game.

That thought made Harry note who _wasn’t_ present: Mrs. Weasley was home with Victoire; Percy and Audrey were visiting her parents (Mrs. Weasley had hopes for another wedding); and, after his long night, Harry was grateful that Mrs. Tonks had decided Teddy wasn’t old enough to last through an entire professional match. Not having to entertain his godson meant Harry could give his full attention to—

_And rounding out the Harpies team… Chaser Gin-neeee Weas-leeeeee!_

She exploded from the passage like she’d been shot from the cannon with the fireworks. Zooming just over the heads of the crowd, she lapped the stadium, whirling in an ever-tighter corkscrew spin until, by the time she passed within arm’s reach of the box, she was a copper-green-gold blur, rolling her broom over and over faster than one of Uncle Vernon’s drills, then plunging into a death-defying dive to land smoothly among her teammates. The crowd went wild.

“ _That_ …” —George punched the back of Harry’s shoulder, inadvertently reminding him to breathe— “…is how you do a flashy entrance.”

Harry barely heard the whistles and shouts from inside and outside of the box as he pulled his Omnioculars from his pocket and focused on the center of the pitch. When he’d come as Jakob to her match at the beginning of the season, Ginny had seemed distracted and fidgety. Today, she was the picture of focused determination, giving no sign that she’d just completed a hair-raising entrance. Harry’s heartbeat, only just returned to normal, sped up again as a thrill of pride and desire raced through him. She was magnificent. Brave. Fiery. Strong.

Forbidden.

So unlike the girl he’d known before…

Harry dropped the Omnioculars to watch the ball-release and cheer with the crowd, but his mind was miles away, watching Ginny play—badly—in a red and gold uniform on a rain-soaked pitch… comforting her afterward… reigniting the fire in her… with his own body… on a bed conjured by a magical room…

“Oh, Merlin! She’s going for the goal already!”

Ron’s shout brought Harry back to the present just in time to raise his viewers to watch. Flying at full tilt, straight at the goal, Ginny feinted to the left before jerking her broom back to the right and tossing the Quaffle behind Wood’s back at a steep angle toward the center hoop. It barely missed the bottom edge of the ring going in and the top edge going out the other side; she had to veer sharply to avoid hitting the post as she flew past. The beautiful part of the play was that the right goal had been completely open, offering an easy shot. Ginny had gone for the hoop Wood was guarding to send a message that came through loud and clear.

The noise of the crowd was deafening, but Harry could barely hear it over his own shouts mixing with the others in the box. Even George was so excited that he hugged Harry without the slightest hesitation or flicker of sarcasm.

Almost before they had finished celebrating, Ginny had grabbed the Quaffle again and was soaring at the goal. This time she feinted left, then kept going and tossed the Quaffle in from a high angle. Pandemonium broke out in the stands.

By the time she scored her third goal in ten minutes, Wood was furious, screaming at his team to guard Ginny from the Quaffle. The Puddlemere Chasers and Beaters became so focused on following that order they seemed to forget about scoring, themselves. Nearly ten more minutes passed before they remembered and got one through the hoop, but Ginny quickly snagged the ball again and weaved through the other players at top speed.

Mid-pitch, her fellow Chasers flanked her in the arrow-shaped Hawkshead Attack formation, flying only a foot off the grass in a beeline for the opposite goal. Within inches of the scoring area, where only one Chaser could go, Ginny pulled up sharply. Wood tracked her, but she passed the ball to the Chaser on her right and flipped backwards to get free of the foul territory, while the other Chaser veered to the left. Valmai Morgan scored easily. After only twenty minutes, the Harpies were up 40-10.

And so it went: Ginny unpredictably passing off so her teammates could score or putting the ball through the rings with her own impossible moves. The roaring crowd never seemed to pause for breath. By her sixth goal, the Puddlemere team had become frantic in their efforts to keep Ginny away from the Quaffle and out of scoring range.

“Oi! Get off her!”

“They’re blagging and blatching her at the same time!”

“Where’s the bloody ref?”

Too busy holding his breath to join Ron, Bill, Angelina, and George’s outraged shouts, Harry watched in horror as a Puddlemere Chaser grabbed the tail of Ginny’s broom to give his fellows time to crash into her from either side, then all three broke away just in time for a Bludger to smash into her shoulder, nearly unseating her. Before the collision, she had managed to pass the ball to Flo Traylor, who scored (to Harry’s smug satisfaction), but once the play was over, Ginny cradled her arm to her chest and headed toward the Harpies’ bench. Gwenog Jones called for a time-out.

The tension among the Harpies’ fans, especially in the Weasley box, was palpable. Harry didn’t even try to hide his anger as he focused his Omnioculars on the team of Mediwizards blocking Ginny from view. The distance was too great for his eavesdropping spell, but even with his pathetic lip-reading skills, he could tell what they were saying.

“They broke it! Those bastards broke her shoulder!”

“Harry! No!” Ron tackled Harry, forcing down the wand he didn’t remember drawing as the two of them landed with a thud across their seats. Ron lowered his voice to a strident murmur against Harry’s ear. “Are you mental? You’re not even supposed to have that in here! Let the refs handle it. Besides, the Mediwizards will fix her up and she’ll come back mad as hell and even more determined. That’ll be the best revenge.”

Harry flushed crimson; the action had been pure reflex. He quickly reholstered his wand, hoping the press hadn’t got a picture even though they wouldn’t have heard his and Ron’s shouts because of the one-way silencing spells on the box.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured as Ron clumsily levered himself upright. The rest of the family reluctantly tore their startled stares away to look back at the pitch—except George, whose scowl could’ve conjured a storm. Harry ignored him and gave Ron a sheepish look. “Thanks. Wasn’t thinking.”

Ron broke into a cheeky grin. “Can’t have the Savior responsible for the Harpies having to forfeit, can we?”

Harry frowned. “Git!” Then another thought hit him: this was exactly why they didn’t allow a stadium full of emotionally-charged fans to come in armed. “Wonder why they didn’t take it at the gate?”

“Dunno. They made the rest of us check ours.” Ron shrugged as he popped a handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans into his mouth.

Harry blinked. He didn’t remember seeing anyone check their wands. But, then, security had rushed to get him past the crush of fans.

“Maybe it’s ’cause you’re an Auror?” Ron garbled thoughtfully around another mouthful of candy.

“More likely just the Potter-effect—none of the regular rules apply,” George muttered, then grunted like he’d been punched.

Harry raised his viewers to check Ginny’s progress. She burst from the huddled group into the air and the stadium exploded with sound: cheers from the Harpies’ fans; boos from Puddlemere’s. Flexing her shoulder, then waving victoriously to the crowd, she lined up for her two foul shots. Wood just barely got his fingertips on the first and knocked it away; he came nowhere near the second one as it zoomed dead center through the middle ring.

The Harpies were ahead, 150-30, which meant the game was still up for grabs if Puddlemere caught the… Harry realized with a start that he hadn’t once thought to look for the Snitch. Since his introduction to the sport at age eleven, watching for that flash of gold had always been his top priority, whether he was a player or a spectator. He didn’t even know if the Seekers had spotted it at all today. After a cursory scan of the sky, he gave it up as a lost cause—he’d rather watch Ginny.

Ron was right. Ginny was back with a vengeance and scored twice within the next five minutes. Counting her foul shot, she needed only one more goal to win their bet, but he was pretty sure Ginny wouldn’t want to count the foul shot.

_“Felton’s seen the Snitch! Hargest is on his tail!”_

At the announcer’s shout, Harry spared only a quick glance at the mad race toward the clouds—the Puddlemere Seeker had a half-broom lead—then riveted back to where Ginny was soaring toward Wood at blinding speed. She didn’t even bother to feint, zooming at him from the left and sending the Quaffle behind her back into the left-hand goal as he moved to block the center one. 180–30. The Harpies—and Ginny—needed one more goal to win outright if the Puddlemere Seeker came up with the Snitch.

Heart in his throat, Harry flicked a glance toward the clouds—the Seekers were out of sight—and back to the pitch where both teams were frantically passing and bumping each other, trying to gain control of the Quaffle. It was changing hands almost too quickly to follow. Morgan bashed into a Puddlemere Chaser, knocking the ball loose. Traylor swooped in and grabbed it. Ginny dropped from nowhere to run interference ahead of her.

“Come on, come on, come on…” Harry whispered to himself, every muscle tensed. He cast a worried glance upward, then looked back down the pitch. The other Harpies had joined Ginny in clearing a path for Traylor. Harry changed his mantra: “Pass it, pass it, pass it…”

_“There’s the Snitch!”_

At the announcer’s hoarse shout, the Seekers blasted through the clouds, battling viciously for the little gold ball that seemed to be flitting in several directions at once. The fans screamed impossibly louder. The noise in the Weasley box was deafening. Harry dug his nails into his palms, afraid to look away from the race to the goal.

Traylor and Ginny approached the opposite outside hoops in tandem. Wood flew frantic Double-Eight Loops, trying to watch them both at once. Just before they reached the scoring boundary, the two Chasers crossed paths, barely missing a collision as Traylor made the pass.

“Yes!” Harry breathed.

But then, as Wood moved to block her, Ginny passed the ball back. Traylor sent it through the center hoop.

A second later: _“Felton’s caught the Snitch!”_

“Nooooooo!” Harry screamed, pulling at his hair.

“No?” Ron stopped jumping and screaming long enough to grab Harry’s shoulders and give him a shake. “What do you mean no? They won! Puddlemere caught the Snitch, but the Harpies won!”

“But Ginny didn’t get her ten goals!” Harry groaned, sagging down into his chair and dropping his face into his hands.

Ron stopped bouncing and gave Harry a puzzled look. “Yes, she did. She made that foul sho—”

“You know she won’t count that one,” Harry said, finally remembering to drop his voice to keep the rest of the family from hearing.

“So?” Ron looked bewildered. “If _you_ think it counts, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

After a moment of shock, Harry broke into a grin. He forgot just how bloody brilliant Ron could be sometimes. Now, he just had to get his timing right.

“Potter!”

Harry whipped his head around to find George by the door holding up the broom. He sent it sailing over Fleur, Hermione, and Angelina’s heads almost before Harry could jump to his feet and catch it.

“Wait until we call your name,” George barked. “And remember—flashy.”

As George disappeared through the door, Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yes, you must do the grand entrance,” Fleur said as she eased herself back down to her seat. “You must make the drama… create the excitement.”

Harry leaned the broom against the wall and crossed his arms. “So now you’re going to harass me, too?”

As the announcer encouraged the fans to remain seated for a special announcement, Fleur tilted her nose and sniffed indignantly. “As your publicist, I wish only to advise you properly.”

Hermione leaned over the row of chairs in front of her to put a hand on Harry’s arm. “I know you don’t like calling attention to yourself, Harry, but it’s important. It’s for a good cause, you know.”

Harry flung his hands into the air. “Are you _all_ going to gang up on me?”

“Not me, mate.” Ron slapped Harry on the shoulder. “They don’t seem to remember that it’s been a few years since you played and, well, you’re probably a bit rusty on the moves, yeah? And, of course, you’d never be able to come close to doing what Ginny did when she was introduced, so yeah. No point making a fool of yourself. You just do whatever you feel comfortable doing.”

Harry glared at Ron, but from the corner of his eye saw Hermione put her hand over her mouth to smother a laugh and Fleur look at her lap with her lips pressed together. Bill and Mr. Weasley didn’t even try to hide their amusement.

“You know, he’s probably right,” Angelina chimed in, her voice a bit too grave. “It _has_ been a while, Harry. You should probably take it easy. We can’t have you injured before the match. That would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? Don’t worry, I’ll handle George.”

She nudged Ron and they tried to hold back their smirks. Harry groaned and pushed his fingers under his glasses. They knew him too well.

Harry turned toward the window as George’s Sonorus-enhanced voice boomed up from the pitch. Noticing distractedly that Ginny was standing next to Gwenog, Harry only half listened as George explained the purpose and details of the charity match and introduced the two captains and the members of the celebrity team, which had adopted the ludicrous name _Wood’s Wonders_.

As much as he hated the thought of making a spectacle of himself, Harry knew he should do what they wanted. But Ron was right about the “rusty” part. Harry hadn’t flown any strictly-Quidditch maneuvers since… well, since training Dennis Creevey at Hogwarts. But then again, some of the moves he’d made on a broom in the past two years had been far more dangerous—and totally unrehearsed.

“You should probably head down now, Harry,” Hermione said as if soothing a petulant child. “It’ll take a few minutes to get to the pitch if you’re not going to fly.”

Harry shook his head, wondering why he was even fighting this. He’d never passed up a direct challenge before, no point starting now.

“Fine!” He growled with feigned irritation and stepped into his chair. He placed a foot on the window ledge and cast a determined look over his shoulder. “You want drama and flash. I’ll show you drama and flash.” He put both feet on the ledge and crouched down to put his head through the opening.

“Harry! Be careful!” Hermione’s tone was slightly panicked.

Harry turned to grin at her, deliberately wobbling to draw a gasp from everyone nearby, inside and outside the box. “What? Too much drama? A bit late to change your mind, now.”

 _“And… playing Seeker for the Wonders…”_ George was really hamming it up, drawing out the suspense. _“… a real-life wizarding wonder… a wonder of wonders… the youngest Seeker in more than a century…”_

Harry grabbed his broom and held it horizontally out to Ron. “Hold this.” When Ron closed his fists around it, Harry shook his head. “Hands flat.” Ron opened his hands, letting the broom lie across them. “That’s it. Hold it just like that until I’m ready for it.”

_“…a true hero… the Chosen One… the Savior of the Wizarding World… Haaa-reeeee Pot-terrrrr!”_

Harry flashed Ron a grin, silently cast his charm, and launched himself from the window, laughing aloud at the way Ron’s jaw dropped and Hermione screamed.

***

Still riding her adrenaline high, Ginny followed Gwenog out to the center of the pitch, torn between the thrill of beating Puddlemere—beating Wood—and the regret over not making her ten goals. She would have gone for that last one if Flo hadn’t been positioned for a clean shot and the Snitch catch hadn’t been imminent. So, yeah, she’d taken one for the team. Winning the match was so much more important than her wager with Harry. And watching Wood struggle between the need to put on a happy face for the presentation and the desire to yell at his team was so worth it!

As George cast a Sonorus and began his spiel about the charity match, Ginny mourned a bit over the loss of the world’s premier broom—of course, to her the fact that it was Harry’s would make it premier even if it was a Cleansweep… and not because he was “Harry Potter.” But still, it was nice to know she’d almost won it.

And then it hit her: she’d lost much more than the broom. Her stomach lurched and her gasp was loud enough that Gwenog jerked her head around to see what was wrong. Ginny quickly schooled her face and shook her head to indicate she was okay, even as her mind was spinning out of control. In losing the wager, she’d lost her identity—the one thing that most made her recognizable as a Weasley. How could she have agreed to this? She gave herself a mental slap—she’d been arrogant enough to think she couldn’t lose. And now, she was going to have to turn her hair green in front of thousands of people.

Dread turned into panic. Oh, Merlin! She couldn’t remember the spell! What if she botched it and made it permanent?

 _Wait!_ She wouldn’t have to do it here and now. She didn’t have a wand!

Relief cleared her mind like the sun melting snow. Yes, she’d have to pay up later, but not in front of so many witnesses. And Harry was such a softie. Maybe he’d let her do it for a shorter time… like a week, or maybe even just a day. This could work! She could be back to normal in time for the next match, if she played her cards right. As she began sorting through strategies, George’s voice broke into her thoughts.

_“…the Savior of the Wizarding World… Haaa-reeeee Pot-terrrrr!”_

Ginny followed the sweep of George’s arm towards the family box and her heart froze.

Harry was suspended in mid-air, his arms spread wide, and no broom in sight.

 _No!_ She wanted to join the terrified screams building from the crowd, but her throat was closed and her brain petrified. He’d fallen… or been pushed… he was going to…

Suddenly, everything registered—he wasn’t falling. In fact, he seemed to be floating, moving up and away from the box as if he were diving in slow motion and time had stopped.

And then, in an instant, his broom zoomed from the box behind him. Throwing his leg over it, he became a dark blur, lapping the stadium, weaving up and down just over the heads of the crowd, then pealing off down the center of the pitch into a series of backward loops before shooting straight up into the clouds. The stadium was absolutely silent, the crowd holding its collective breath. The seconds ticked by. The tension reached breaking point. Harry burst through the clouds, his broom vertical, headed straight downward, toward the center of the pitch.

Ginny did scream this time. He was going too fast. He’d never be able to—

He pulled up within a foot of the ground and landed without the slightest stumble right in front of George. The crowd went mad.

Ginny forced herself to breathe again. Was he mental? What the bloody hell did he think he was doing? Harry _never_ showed off just for the sake of it.

Harry looked at George and cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

Ginny couldn’t hear the word over the roar of the crowd, but she watched George for his answer.

George gave a dismissive shrug. “It’ll do.”

That arse had put him up to it! She was going to kill them! How dare they terrify her like that?

But before she could work herself into a proper rage, Harry stood in front of her wearing a wicked smirk. Her stomach flipped. He thought he was going to collect on their wager. As she opened her mouth to tell him it would have to wait until later, he flicked his eyes down to his right hand, drawing her gaze down as well. With only a hint of movement, he dropped his wand from his wrist holster and flipped it over to palm the handle backwards, laying the rest of it against his forearm so he could hand it to her without being obvious.

A wand! How could he have a wand? Security didn’t let just anyone in with—

Oh.

As he stuck out his hand to “congratulate” her, Ginny felt the blood rush from her face. He was going to make her do it. Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and swallowed hard. Okay. Fine. She’d conjured this demon, so she’d have to dance with it. What were a few months with green hair? She could do this.

Without opening her eyes, she reached out to accept his handshake… and his wand. Her eyes flew open when she felt much heavier wood press into her palm.

Harry’s eyes were twinkling with mischief as his smirk grew into a brilliant smile. “Congratulations. Great match.”

She stared in stunned silence at the broom he’d thrust into her grip. Before she could sputter out a protest, he had turned to shake Gwenog’s hand and moved to his spot beside Wood, who was whispering frantically and getting no response but a grin directed at the ground.

This wasn’t right. That foul shot didn’t count! No matter how badly she wanted it—and didn’t want to turn her hair green—she couldn’t keep such a prize. She _wouldn’t_ keep it!

Ginny was vaguely aware of her teammates jabbering excitedly behind her, Gwenog eyeing her speculatively, and George trying vainly to calm the crowd—one side of the stadium was shouting “Har-ry” and the other side was answering “Pot-ter.” With Harry the center of attention like that, Ginny couldn’t make a scene, so she concentrated with all of her might, willing him to look at her so she could tell him what a prat he was and where he could stick his precious broom. He refused to look up, even though she was certain he knew exactly what she wanted. 

As George finally got the crowd’s attention and turned the presentation over to Wood, Gwenog leaned over and murmured in Ginny’s ear. “What’s with the broom?”

Angry and a bit flustered, Ginny answered without thinking. “We had a wager on the match.”

A look of surprise came over Gwenog’s face. It quickly turned to a fiendish grin. “And if _he_ had to give up the world’s fastest broom, what would _you_ have had to forfeit?”

Ginny glared and growled, “Not what you’re thinking. Just my identity.” At Gwenog’s confused frown, she added, “I’d have had to turn my hair green. And besides, I didn’t make ten goals. I have to give it back.”

Gwenog snorted. “Close enough. Keep it. You’re going to need it.”

Before Ginny could ask why, George had signaled for Gwenog to cast her Sonorus charm and speak to the crowd.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming out today to support the Harpies,” Gwenog began, grinning at the jeers coming from the Puddlemere fans. “And to encourage you to come out to watch the charity match and support the children of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for all of us.” The cheering and booing subsided a bit. “I’d also like to commend Mr. Wood for pulling together such an… illustrious team. Especially for the coup of securing such an outstanding Seeker.”

She had to pause for quite a while as the chant started again. When the crowd finally quieted, she looked at Wood. “Of course, no matter how good the individual players, no one, not even a captain as skilled as Wood, could bring a team up to Harpies’ standards in only a few weeks.” The crowd proclaimed their feelings, depending on their allegiance, but Gwenog just waited them out. “So, to be sporting and make this charity match worth your time and money, we’re going to mix things up a bit... give some of our reserves a chance to show their stuff and move some players around to see if they can play different positions.”

With a flourish of her arm, Gwenog gestured toward Ginny. “You might not have noticed the little exchange that took place after Mr. Potter’s phenomenal flying demonstration.” As every eye focused on her—including Harry’s, his face carefully blank—Ginny froze, panicked over where her thoughtless confession had led. Uncaring of Ginny’s pleading look, Gwenog continued, “It seems Weasley and Potter made a small wager on today’s match, and Weasley is now the proud owner of Potter’s one-of-a-kind broom.”

The crowd exploded again, but Ginny was much more worried about the way Harry’s brows twitched together and his face grew pink, even though his impassive mask never slipped. She tried to convey with her eyes that she hadn’t been part of the plan for this, but he wouldn’t hold her gaze. And, of course, Wood looked livid. Ginny dropped her face toward the ground, peering up through her eyelashes and struggling not to fidget as Gwenog reached out to touch the broom handle.

“Now, this broom isn’t sanctioned for league play—not yet, anyway, but if I have my way…” She paused for the crowd to settle. “But I don’t recall anything in the rules that says we can’t use it in the charity match. And my guess is that Mr. Potter probably has a comparable or even better replacement already on the way.” She looked at Harry and he nodded once in agreement. “Well, that’s a good thing because he’s going to need it when he’s racing Weasley for the Snitch on November 17.”

Ginny jerked her head up, jaw completely slack, just in time to see Harry’s eyes briefly widen in surprise before a look of understanding passed through them. His lips thinned as he glared at George… who had the smug expression he always wore when his plans came together.

Ginny groaned. How had she not seen this coming?

Meanwhile, the crowd was going wild and Security was losing control of the press on the sidelines. George shouted through his Sonorus, encouraging everyone to get their tickets for the charity match on their way out of the stadium, and then the reporters and photographers converged.

The next hour was a nightmare. Ginny lost track of how many times she said Harry was “just another brother” as she fielded many more questions about their wager and their relationship and playing Seeker against him than she did about her performance against Puddlemere. By the time she had fought her way to the changing room, Ginny was exhausted and furious. And, of course, she ran into the last person she wanted to see.

“Zoe, I’m—” Ginny stopped, not really sure how to finish. The Harpies’ Seeker would see playing against Harry as a status symbol that had been snatched away. “Sorry” wouldn’t be nearly enough.

Zoe’s eyes glinted with anger, but her voice was calm. “No problem. Gwen said she was going to mix things up. Seems logical that you’d face Potter, since you’ve now got the broom to do it.”

“But I didn’t know—I didn’t plan—”

Zoe looked away, jaw flexing as if she were biting back words. She finally looked back at Ginny. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not a real match, anyway.” Without waiting for a reply, she pushed past and disappeared through the door.

Ginny stared after her, so caught up in the turmoil in her head that she jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

“She’ll get over it,” Kelby murmured. “Come on, get cleaned up. A few pints at the Goblet and the world will seem like a better place.”

That sounded like the best idea Ginny had heard all day.

***

Harry wasn’t really sure why he had agreed to come along when George had suggested that they all join the post-match celebration at the Glowing Goblet. George had just moved himself to number two on the list of people Harry most wanted to hex and Harry really wasn’t in the mood for a celebration, even if the thought of drinking himself stupid sounded just fine.

The chaos after the announcement had been grueling. He’d given very few straight answers, letting Ginny take the lead on the personal questions about their wager and relationship. She had obviously been as surprised as he by Gwenog’s announcement and not happy about it, either. No happier than she’d been about having his broom forced on her. He’d answer for that later, but he wasn’t bothered. She deserved it.

With a weary sigh, Harry followed Ron through the door into the crowded pub. When every eye turned their way and the room went still, he cast a hasty Confundus Shield to divert the attention of those nearby so they could get safely inside. Within moments, activity resumed and they settled at a corner table.

George didn’t even bother to sit down, pronouncing, “First round’s on me!” and scurrying off toward the bar.

“Every round’s on him,” Ron muttered darkly. “I can’t believe he did that! And to his own sister! Not to mention you, Harry. That git!”

“I knew he was up to something when I saw him with Wood and Jones the other night,” Harry said wearily.

“Well, at least it worked,” Hermione said. “We have only about a hundred tickets left.”

“Yeah, there is that,” Harry agreed, running his fingers up under his glasses to scrub at his stinging eyes. He’d been up for nearly thirty-six hours and his body had just got the message.

George reappeared through the crowd, levitating five pints, but got within a foot of the table and, with a slightly confused look, started to wander off.

“Oops!” Harry flicked his finger and George’s face cleared as he turned back toward the table. Angelina raised her eyebrows in question. “Sorry. Had a shield up,” Harry said with a sheepish grin. “Once you step away, I’ll have to let you back in.”

“It’s the only way we’ll have any peace in here,” Ron added as George distributed the pints.

George remained standing and lifted his glass. “To success!”

Harry joined the others in responding to the toast, but when the alcohol hit his stomach and the familiar anxiety closed off his throat, he realized that he’d be going home sober. Oh, well. Someone had to be the designated Apparator.

George immediately dragged Angelina off to dance—he seemed to be avoiding Harry. A smart move. Harry pretended to sip his drink as he watched the crowd with Ron and Hermione. When Summers stopped just outside the shield with one arm around a pretty blonde and levitating five pints with his other hand, Harry lifted the spell long enough to let them in. The blonde turned out to be one of Ginny’s teammates—a Chaser named Val—and the five of them chatted about the day’s events.

Harry noticed when Ginny and another girl came in, but they went straight to the bar, then to a high table against the far wall that seemed to have been reserved for them. After another few minutes, Summers and his girl excused themselves and went to Ginny’s table. Harry knew the instant Ginny learned that he was there—she seemed irritated—but she never looked in his direction. With a sigh, he went back to crowd watching and let Ron and Hermione’s idle chatter wash over him. At least a dozen people—mostly seductive-looking women—headed in their direction, but wandered off once they reached the shield. Ron found it hilarious and Hermione even started smiling when several of the more persistent ones tried multiple times before cottoning on.

After a while, Ron got up to get more drinks and Hermione went in search of the loo, so Harry slouched down in his chair and laid his head back against the wall behind him, letting his lids drop to soothe his burning eyes. Visions of Ginny soaring over the pitch played randomly in his mind, bringing a tiny smile to his lips as he relished her daring moves to thwart Wood over and over. She really was brilliant on a broom.

“Harry!”

He popped up, expecting to see Hermione, but was shocked to find Ginny with her arms crossed and her foot tapping. Harry fought back a grin. Let the games begin.

***

Watching the parade of witches trying to get at Harry was amusing, but when Ron and Hermione got up and headed in different directions, Ginny set her pint down with a thunk and slid off her stool. Harry was finally alone—it was now or never.

Stopping just before the point where everyone seemed to veer off, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot as she waited. This close, she could see the lines of exhaustion bracketing his mouth and eyes as he leaned back against the wall. For a moment, her heart melted a bit and she had to stoke the fire of her anger to fight off the urge to soothe away his obvious weariness.

“Harry!”

He jumped as if he’d begun to doze, but immediately dropped the shield to let her in. As she moved toward the table, she saw the slight movement of his hand that meant he was putting the shield back, but then he flicked his finger again and she noticed that the noise level in the pub dropped considerably. Even though she knew he wasn’t doing it to show off, his casual use of wandless magic only fed her irritation as she flopped into the chair next to him.

“I’m not keeping it,” she snapped.

Harry’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Why? You earned it.”

“I did not and you know it!”

“Sure you did. You got ten goals.”

“No! I got nine goals and one foul shot.”

Harry looked like he was working to keep his face straight. “You got the foul shot past Wood, didn’t you?”

She eyed him warily. “So?”

“So the wager was about whether you could get the Quaffle past Wood ten times. No one else has been able to get it past him more than once this season.”

She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You manipulated me.”

His eyes went wide. “What?”

“You manipulated me. You didn’t even wait until after the match to order a new broom. You knew what George had planned and—”

“Wait! No! I had no idea what George was up to. Sure, I knew you’d win if I challenged you like that, but—”

“Ha! I knew it! You _did_ manipulate me. You made that wager just so I’d be determined to beat Wood.”

Harry’s brows furrowed as if he were trying to work out a puzzle. “Soooo… I manipulated you to make you beat Wood. Isn’t that what you’d planned to do anyway?”

“Yeees…” She made it almost a question.

“So if you wanted to win anyway, what was wrong with a bit of incentive?”

Ginny’s cheeks warmed as her anger flared. He was winding her up! As Harry grinned and took a casual sip from his glass, she vaguely wondered why his throat didn’t contract when he swallowed.

“I’m not keeping it! If you won’t take it back, I’ll sell it,” she snapped.

“Can’t,” Harry said calmly.

“Why not?”

“Anti-theft charms. They’re keyed to you. No one else can fly it.”

Her jaw fell open. “How did you…?”

“Oh. Erm, well _I_ can still fly it, but no one else.”

“No, I mean how did you set the charms? Aren’t they supposed to be keyed to a magical signature? Wouldn’t I have to be there?”

He hesitated briefly before answering. “Oh, erm… no. I just had to take them something that you’d charmed.”

He was hiding something, she just knew it. “And how did you get something that I’d charmed? Do I need to redo the wards on my flat?”

Harry turned red to the roots of his hair as he concentrated on making evenly-space rings of moisture on the table with the bottom of his glass. “Erm, no. It... it was something you gave me… a long time ago.”

“What?” The word was more demand than question.

Harry flicked a glance up and immediately looked back at the table. His voice was barely above a whisper. “A card.”

“A card.”

He wouldn’t look at her. She waited, letting the silence stretch.

He finally sucked in a big breath and blurted, “A singing get-well card.”

Ginny gaped at him. “I was _twelve_ when I made that! You still have it?”

“Of course, I still have it,” he said, affecting an insulted tone. Then his eyes took on a teasing glint. “But I do have to keep it buried in the bottom of my trunk because it really is annoying after a bit.”

She tried valiantly to hold on to her fury, but couldn’t quite pull it off. He’d kept that stupid card she’d made for him when the Dementors had knocked him off his broom her second year. How was she supposed to stay angry now? She fell back on her old standby and cuffed him on the back of the head. “Git! I’m still not keeping the broom.”

Harry gave her a solemn look. “You played brilliantly today. You really do deserve it.”

She tried not to cringe as he held her gaze. As badly as she wanted to hang onto her anger, he was wearing her down. But then he ruined it...

“Besides, you’re going to need it. I’d really hate to have absolutely _no_ competition for the Snitch. Not that it’ll matter in the end, of course. I’m sure I’ll get to it before you even see it.”

The taunt set her head straight. “You wish, Potter! I’ll catch the Snitch so fast you won’t even realize it’s been released to begin with.” Ginny growled, furious that the conversation hadn’t gone anything like she’d planned. Fine! She’d keep the bloody broom until the charity match and show him just who he was up against. But after that…

Harry beamed at her, then offered a mock toast and took a sip of his pint. His throat never clenched. The stupid prat was vanishing the stuff!

“And, if you’re going to pretend to drink, you should at least _look_ like you’re swallowing,” she spat.

Harry stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth, his jaw slack. “That bloody bugger,” he murmured to himself, his eyes flicking back and forth with a faraway look as if he were watching a duel across the pub. “He put a trigger on it.”

Ginny began to panic. What had she said to make him look like that? “Harry?” She grabbed his arm. “Harry! What’s wrong?”

His eyes snapped back into focus and he set his glass down. “You…” He stood, put his hands on either side of her face, “…are abso-bloody-lutely brilliant!” and kissed her soundly on the mouth. 

Ginny was still too gobsmacked to move when he released her and dashed through the crowd and out the door.


	46. Summoning Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry follows his new lead. Ginny and Hermione have a heart to heart.

“Nana, where’s Harry?” Teddy whinged for about the thousandth time.

As Mrs. Tonks shushed him, Ginny pulverized another bit of treacle tart with her fork and wondered the same thing. She’d given up trying to be subtle about alternately watching the door and the Floo. This had turned into another somber Weasley Sunday lunch.

“Ron, are you sure Harry didn’t say anything about where he was going?” Mum had moved from fretting to full-on worry.

“No, Mum,” Ron repeated with exaggerated patience. “He left in a hurry, so it was probably to do with work. When I checked this morning, Kreacher said he came in late last night and left early this morning, so we know he’s not—ow!” Hermione had probably kicked him, but she might as well have let him finish. “Dead” was in everyone’s mind now, anyway.

Ginny shivered as the frozen knot of terror in her chest pumped more icy fear through her veins. She closed her eyes, struggling against the flood of memories unleashed by the same helpless numbness she’d felt nearly three years ago. He’d assured her that night that he was going to a perfectly safe meeting, then had promptly disappeared for a week. She hadn’t been able to handle the waiting and wondering all those years ago, and she wasn’t handling them well now.

Gritting her teeth, Ginny forced her eyes back open to concentrate on further mangling the crumbs on her plate and hanging onto her control. Falling apart wouldn’t change anything and would only draw more unwanted attention, as if Hermione and George weren’t watching her closely enough already.

Ginny was just relieved that no one had mentioned the kiss. In the context of Harry disappearing right after, it _could_ be considered a morbid farewell and that wouldn’t do anything to calm Mum’s fears. Or her own. But at least it hadn’t been in the _Prophet_ this morning—knowing Harry’s talent for shields and how quickly it had happened, Ginny was fairly certain that Ron and Hermione were the only ones who had seen it and, then, only because they’d been waiting at the bar for him and Ginny to finish talking.

Ginny ducked her head to hide behind the curtain of her hair as she ran her fingers over her lips in wonder. The kiss hadn’t been all that great—just lips smashing together; they hadn’t even swapped spit—but it had been enough to steal her breath. She could still feel the warm press of his mouth, see the delight in his eyes, hear the excitement in his voice as he called her brilliant. Only, the delight and excitement hadn’t been for _her_ , had it? That had been for whatever she’d said to make him remember whatever it was that had made him rush off. But, oh, the kiss… the kiss _had_ been just for her. It _had_ to have been. Surely, he wouldn’t kiss just anyone who helped him remember something… would he?

Unbidden, her anger flared again. She couldn’t decide if she was angrier with him for teasing her like that or with herself for just sitting there, stunned and unresponsive, forfeiting her chance to kiss him back and show him what he’d been missing. Yes, what _he’d_ been missing. _She_ didn’t need _him_. Of course, she didn’t. She didn’t _need_ any man. But wanting… well, _wanting_ was an entirely different thing, now, wasn’t it?

Abruptly, Ginny stood and carried her plate to the sink. She couldn’t sit here any longer and just pretend that everything was fine. “I’m going flying,” she announced to no one in particular, then slammed out the garden door and headed to the shed to get _her_ broom—she was _not_ going to give in to temptation and fly Harry’s… even if she _wanted_ to.

Hermione caught up with her halfway across the garden. “Ginny, wait. Have you remembered something?”

“No!” Ginny growled, not slowing her stride. When she reached the shed, she whirled to glare at Hermione and Ron, who was trotting to catch up. “I told you already. One minute we were arguing about the broom, the next he was staring into space, and then he…” —she caught herself just in time— “…then he was gone.”

Cheeks blazing, Ginny flung open the door of the shed—she _really_ didn’t want to discuss that kiss. That memory was hers alone.

Hermione made a noise like she was going to continue the inquisition, but the mobile in her pocket chirped, creating just the distraction Ginny needed. She grabbed her broom to make her escape, but couldn’t keep from stopping short at Hermione’s words.

“Scott. Any sign of him?” Hermione’s eyes went unfocused as she listened intently for a moment. “All right. Thanks. We’ll be there shortly.” As she snapped the phone shut, she cast a look up at Ron then back toward Ginny. “Summers said Harry’s been at the office at some point since last night, but he’s not there now and he’s not answering his mobile.”

The breath Ginny had been unconsciously holding whooshed out, but she tensed again as Hermione pinned her with a look.

“Think, Ginny. What exactly did you say just before Harry… left?”

Closing her eyes, Ginny bit down on her tongue to keep from saying something they’d all regret. They’d been over and over this already, but Hermione was like a Niffler after gold. Ginny drew a steadying breath and tried once more to tease out the fleeting memory that tickled the back of her mind, but just like a Snitch, it darted away before she could grasp it. She opened her eyes to find Hermione looking hopeful.

“It was something meant to be insulting, but I _can’t_ re _mem_ ber,” Ginny said through clenched teeth.

The semi-permanent line between Hermione’s brows reappeared. “Tell me again what _he_ said.”

Ginny couldn’t take any more. “Look! It doesn’t matter. He’s apparently fine. Why don’t you just… just… I don’t know, send him a Patronus or something?” Triumph surged through her chest when Hermione’s jaw dropped.

As Hermione recovered and shot a silver streak from her wand, Ron gave an approving smirk. “Ever considered a career as an Auror, Gin?”

“No, thanks,” Ginny muttered as she straddled her broom. “I’d rather work with people who are _supposed_ to be idiots.” She kicked off hard, refusing to acknowledge the hollow feeling she always got when they left her behind for yet another adventure with Harry.

***

Harry crouched behind the corner of the garden wall, waiting for the signal that the wards on the Malfoy cottage had been dismantled—Summers was the best man for that job. Ron was posted on the other side of the house and Hermione had gone ahead to St. Mungo’s to set up the room they’d need on the Thickey Ward. Harry was grateful that the three of them had agreed to help plan this mission without asking too many questions, even if he was fairly certain Hermione had worked out his secrets—but at least she’d kept her suspicions to herself.

Getting the cooperation of the Minister and Robards had been much more difficult. Harry had finally been forced to settle for a wizard’s oath, instead of the Unbreakable Vow he’d requested, before reluctantly telling them the whole story, including the identity of his contact. He still didn’t trust Robards, but as they were wrapping up the negotiations, Harry thought he’d seen a flicker of approval in the old troll’s face... at least until Hermione’s Patronus had appeared with a scolding to make Molly Weasley proud.

Scrubbing at his weary eyes and wishing he’d taken a larger dose of Pepper Up, Harry let his mind wander.

_Bloody Malfoy!_

When had the stupid git planned to unlock those memories of their conversation over brandy in that Hungarian village? Of course, with Ingalls’s and Summers’s help, Harry had eventually sussed out on his own most of what Malfoy had shared—that Dolohov had gone to ground, rarely staying in one place and dividing his operation so that even his inner circle couldn’t know the full scope of his plans. But the wasted time had given Dolohov two more years to spread his poison across Europe to Britain’s shores. In hindsight, Harry could admit that the plan to maintain his Polyjuice disguise and accompany Malfoy into Dolohov’s lair _had_ been a bit on the mental side—even if he still thought it would’ve worked—but Obliviation? Really? If Ginny hadn’t stumbled on…

Something rustled the bushes nearby and Harry held his breath for a moment, then let it go slowly as a bird took flight. He shifted his weight to keep his leg from going to sleep and willed his stomach to unravel its knots as he fell back into his thoughts.

He’d _kissed_ her. How the bloody hell could he have _not_ remembered kissing her?

Exhaustion was his only excuse. At that point, he’d had only a few hours of restless sleep in two days, and once the flood of memories had hit, he’d been too overwhelmed to think of anything else. He’d run straight to the office to siphon them into a Pensieve, then spent hours going over and over them, looking for every small detail that would help free Narcissa from her Polyjuiced captor and flush the real Malfoy out of hiding. It wasn’t until he’d started wondering what had triggered the memories that he’d reviewed the one of his and Ginny’s conversation.

He had no one but himself to blame for this bloody situation. He’d just been too tired to resist the temptation of having her all to himself, the chance to wind her up and stoke the fiery determination in her eyes. Of course, in other circumstances, he’d have turned the teasing into… well, something more. And the only reason he could think of for not realizing immediately that he’d done something so idiotic was that the kiss had felt perfectly natural, like something he was used to doing regularly. He really _should_ be grateful that she’d unwittingly released his memories—he might not have stopped at just a kiss—but gratitude was losing the battle to regret.

Summers’s signal pulled Harry back to reality and he shook away his errant thoughts. He didn’t have time to dwell on impossible things right now.

Creeping silently toward the front door, Harry peered through the window. Luck was on his side for a change. Mrs. Malfoy and her captor were reading in front of the fire, although she seemed tense, casting surreptitious glances at the apparently relaxed imposter across from her. Harry wondered briefly why the man was still in his Polyjuice disguise—had he been somewhere recently or was he just playing mind games with Mrs. Malfoy? At any rate, Harry hoped they were the only ones in the house; if not, Ron and Summers were covering the back.

Harry signalled to let the others know that he was in position, then counted to three before crashing through the front door. His rapid-fire spells instantly dropped Mrs. Malfoy into slumber under a shield and sent the fake Malfoy hurtling into the wall, crumpling him like a ragdoll to the floor. The battle was over almost before it had begun.

Ron crouched cautiously through the kitchen door, meticulously casting the requisite charms that he’d been taught in training to detect further threats and secure the crime scene. “All clear,” he said in a more formal voice than Harry had ever heard him use.

Summers strolled in from the direction of the bedrooms, his wand held in a deceptively casual grip. “No fair! You got to have all of the fun!”

Harry snorted as he knelt to check on Mrs. Malfoy. Deep, dark hollows cradled her eyes, the yellow-green evidence of a fading bruise highlighted her left cheekbone, and a swollen purple-red gash lined her right jaw. She was overly thin and looked much more frail than she had at the restaurant. Harry’s rage flared as he wondered what other injuries had been Charmed into hiding.

Ron rolled the imposter over with a vicious kick and asked, a bit too eagerly, “I still get to work him over, yeah?”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “You _do_ remember that isn’t really Malfoy, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Ron shot a look at Mrs. Malfoy, then offered Harry a grim smile. “This bastard’s worse, but him looking like Malfoy will make it more fun.” 

Harry grimaced, wishing he could share the reasons why Ron should let go of his long-held grudge. Instead, he looked at Summers. “Don’t let him get carried away. We want the prick to be able to make it back to Dolohov.”

Summers smirked, but his tone was all business. “Get on with it, then. They might’ve set something we didn’t trigger or detect.”

With a nod, Harry placed his wand tip at the fake Malfoy’s temple and concentrated on the events he wanted the man to remember as reality: attempting to Obliviate Mrs. Malfoy during an Auror raid, then leaving her behind in a drooling, vegetative state while he made his narrow escape.

“All right. Leave him somewhere that he’ll think he crawled under until the coast was clear,” Harry said. “I’ll take her to St. Mungo’s.”

As they levitated the man out, Harry whispered a spell to open Mrs. Malfoy’s unseeing eyes and fill her mouth with saliva to simulate the condition he’d put into the wizard’s mind, then stood and lifted her gently into his arms, scowling at her near weightlessness and fragility. The back door slammed shut as he twisted into his Disapparition.

For the wee hours of Monday, the Auror triage area at St. Mungo’s was busy, with three Healers tending a half-dozen or so patients. Good. Plenty of witnesses.

“Some help, here! Please!” Harry bellowed, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

Healer-in-Charge Mellowheath waved off the ward director she’d been talking with near the door and charged over. Harry breathed an inward sigh of relief—Hermione had successfully prepared the way.

As Harry laid Mrs. Malfoy on the closest stretcher, Healer Mellowheath waved her wand to begin the diagnostic checks. Giving him a surreptitious wink, the Healer gasped in surprise, just loud enough to be overheard by the nearest patient and mediwizard. “Oh, my! Isn’t this Narcissa Malfoy?” At Harry’s solemn nod, she gave a grim hum. “Looks like a possible botched Obliviation. If so, I’m not sure how much we can do for her.”

“You have to try. I need to question her about a case.” Harry kept his voice pitched low as if he were trying to be discreet, but still loud enough to be heard as he followed the Healer and stretcher toward the examination room. The heightened buzz of murmurs that followed them through the door confirmed that the plan was still working—the _Prophet_ would have the scoop within the hour.

Harry had just stepped back into the outer room while the Healer worked on Mrs. Malfoy’s real injuries when Summers Apparated into the designated area and looked wildly around. Spotting Harry, he closed his eyes briefly and visibly relaxed before striding across the room.

“The place blew the second we got him past the garden gate,” he muttered in Harry’s ear. “We weren’t sure you got out.”

Panic shot like lightning through Harry’s gut. He grabbed Summers’s elbow and dragged him into the hall. “Where’s Ron?”

“He went to look for you upstairs,” Summers said, already pulling away. “I need to go and—”

Flinging a Patronus from his wand to let Ron and Hermione know he was okay, Harry pulled Summers down next to him onto a nearby bench. “What happened?”

Summers leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing deeply for several moments. Harry had never seen his partner so shaken, although the back-to-back jolts of fear and relief had him feeling much the same.

“The explosion was massive,” Summers said, his eyes still closed and his face contorted as if he were re-watching the scene behind his lids. “Nothing but smoldering ash left. Weasley went fuckin’ barmy thinking you hadn’t got out.” Summers opened serious eyes, even as his usual smirk surfaced. “That bastard is alive because we need him to be, but he might find he’s missing a couple of bits.”

Harry winced, but before he could respond, Healer Mellowheath opened the door to levitate a stretcher through to the hallway. Mrs. Malfoy was still unconscious, her eyes now closed and her mouth dry.

“We’re admitting her to the Thickey Ward.” The Healer kept her voice just loud enough to carry to the shamelessly eavesdropping mediwitch at the closest triage station. “You’re welcome to come up, but I’m afraid she’s too far gone to be of any help.”

Harry flashed a carefully constructed look of frustration. “Thanks. I need to try.”

When they arrived at the private room at the end of a long hallway, away from the more populated areas of the fourth floor ward, Harry was surprised that Ron attacked him first with a breath-stealing hug.

“Thought we’d lost you, mate,” Ron said in a rush as he stepped back, ear tips blazing red, to clear the way for Hermione’s crushing embrace.

“Oh, Harry. I’m so glad you’re all right.” She trembled against his chest.

“Thought you’d’ve noticed by now, I’m not that easy to get rid of,” he said, giving Hermione a final squeeze and gently setting her away from him. They still had work to do. He glanced over his shoulder at Summers. “We need to know what that ward was so we can work out how to check for it.”

“I’m on it,” Summers said, then turned toward Hermione. “I could probably use your help.”

She nodded and moved toward the door.

“You go with them, Ron. They might need an extra wand and it’ll give you some practical experience for the next warding exam,” Harry said. When Ron hesitated, Harry gave him a gentle push toward the door. “Go on. I’ll be fine. Be careful.”

When they were gone, he turned back to find Healer Mellowheath frowning at Mrs. Malfoy.

“She’s in bad shape. I healed the visible wounds, but she has a number of internal injuries that are old enough not to respond to the charms.” The Healer held out a small bag that clinked. “She’s going to have to heal naturally, but these potions will make her more comfortable. Make sure that she takes them when she wakes. With rest, she should be much better by the end of the week.”

Harry stuffed the bag into his pocket. “You’ll limit access to this room? I’d hate for someone innocent to get hurt.”

“The appropriate wards and alarms have been set. They’ve been keyed to me and my two most trusted nurses—one on the day shift and one on the night. Mrs. Weasley said that you’ve made other arrangements for Mrs. Malfoy’s care, but that the nurses are to come in twice per shift as if nothing is out of the ordinary. They’ve been given strict orders not to disturb her or anything in the room. No one else will be allowed in except the people you’ve designated.”

“Perfect.” Harry shook her hand. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help.”

The Healer gave him a smile, reminded him once more about the potions, then said goodnight and hurried out the door.

Harry waited a couple of moments to be sure she was gone before looking about for something to use for the next step. He couldn’t help but smile at the extra pillows sitting in the chair beside the bed, and thanked any deity who might be listening for Hermione’s efficiency and attention to detail. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to survive the past few years without her.

Levitating Mrs. Malfoy several inches off the bed, Harry arranged the pillows lengthwise beneath her, then swished his wand in the complicated pattern Hermione had taught him and softly incanted the spell. Mrs. Malfoy glowed for a second before a transparent, multi-colored mist sank onto the pillows below and formed them into an exact duplicate of her image. With a final flick of Harry’s wand, the illusion began to “breathe” as if it were in a deep slumber.

Harry watched for a moment to be sure the spell would hold, then pulled a walnut from his pocket and touched the tip of his wand to it, triggering a five-second delay. With his wand in one hand and the walnut in the other, he gently slipped his arms beneath Mrs. Malfoy and cradled her tightly to his chest, bracing his stance as the walnut glowed and the hospital room swirled away.

Harry stumbled only slightly when his feet hit the frozen ground beneath the creaking, wind-twisted branches of the small copse. He’d managed to absorb most of the impact of landing, but quickly eased his grip at Mrs. Malfoy’s quiet moan. When she shivered violently and curled into his chest, he gave himself a mental slap for not wrapping her in a blanket before activating the Portkey. Of course, if he’d followed his original plan, the weather difference wouldn’t be a problem.

He’d intended to take her straight to Grimmauld Place, but Robards and Shacklebolt had quickly nixed that idea. Harry had eventually, if grudgingly, had to agree with them. Even if the house couldn’t be seen by anyone who hadn’t been granted access, the general location was fairly common knowledge—just ask the horde of reporters camped across the street. And the sheer number of Weasleys, not counting other friends, who had access to the house would make managing security all but impossible. Not that any of his friends would tell, but Harry couldn’t argue that the fewer people who knew where Mrs. Malfoy was, the better. Robards had insisted that this safe house on an unplottable tip of land on the northern coast of Ireland would be far more secure, especially with a Fidelius Charm and Harry as the Secret Keeper—he’d told only Summers, Hermione, Ron, and Kreacher the location.

Casting a quick warming charm, Harry shifted his cloak to partially shield Mrs. Malfoy, then dashed from the shelter of the trees for the short sprint over the grassy rise. The frigid bluster whipped his cloak about his legs, nearly tripping him as he stumbled onto the pebbled path leading between two rocky outcrops to a protected patch of grass. According to Hermione, carrying Mrs. Malfoy through the Fidelius would work as well as telling her the location, just the way they’d compromised Grimmauld Place by Apparating in with Yaxley in tow. Even so, Harry heaved a sigh of relief when the cottage shimmered into view.

Situated high above a sandy cove, the house had a stunning view of the ocean, but with only a large kitchen that doubled as a sitting room, a small bedroom, and a tiny bath, it was even smaller than the one Mrs. Malfoy had been living in. Harry hoped feeling safe might make up for the cramped quarters.

The door opened at his touch and the warmth radiating from the fireplace assured him that preparations had been made as he’d requested. Kicking the door shut, he carried Mrs. Malfoy straight to the bedroom and tucked her beneath the blankets that had been charmed to stay warm. She settled against the pillows with a small sigh, seeming to relax for the first time. He really hated to wake her, but he couldn’t wait any longer.

Dragging over a small cushioned chair from the corner, he sat beside the bed so she’d be able to see him without moving, then cast his gentlest _Ennervate_ to allow her to rise slowly back to consciousness. Her eyes came to life first, moving restlessly behind her lids. She moaned faintly, apparently becoming aware of her injuries, and attempted to roll over before wincing sharply and curling slightly into herself. Harry held out a soothing hand, but halted the movement, not wanting to startle her. His caution was useless. As her eyelids fluttered open, she gave a cry of alarm and scuttled away from the edge of the bed.

“Don’t worry.” Harry kept his tone soothing. “You’re safe.”

She stared at him, eyes huge in her ghost-white face, hands convulsively clutching at the blanket. “What have you done?” Her voice held a level of terror that Harry would normally associate only with someone facing a Dementor. “What have you done?”

“You’re safe. He can’t hurt you any—”

“No! You don’t understand!” She reached out and grabbed his hand, her nails cutting into the tender skin between his thumb and forefinger. “They’ll kill him! They’ll kill him! I have to go…” Releasing Harry, she threw back the blankets and tried to push herself up.

Harry jumped to his feet and gently pushed her back down—an easy feat in her weakened state. “Please. Don’t. You’re in no shape to go anywhere.” He pulled the covers back over her, despair clenching his gut as she collapsed into sobs. He’d never been any good at dealing with tears. Maybe he should’ve brought Hermione, after all.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand…” Mrs. Malfoy mumbled over and over through her sobs.

Harry knelt beside the bed and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Yes, I _do_ understand. And I’m going to do everything in my power to bring him back to you safely.”

The words seemed to help. She buried her face in her hands and struggled for control. Harry waited until she had managed to bring her breathing to an even, if shuddering, rhythm, and fought against the urgency building in his chest as he did his best to keep his voice calm and reassuring.

“Can you tell me where Draco is? Do you have any way to contact him?”

Mrs. Malfoy shook her head, but didn’t look up. “Nooo…” The word came out in a half moan and her voice cracked as if she were choking back another sob. “I haven’t seen… or heard… from him… in nearly… a year. But he… they said…” She stopped and buried her face in the pillow, her shoulders shaking from her emotion.

Harry stroked her back in an attempt to calm her. “I think he must be okay,” he murmured. “I heard from him a couple of weeks ago.”

Mrs. Malfoy’s head came up, hope shining on her blotchy face. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“No.” Hating how the light in her eyes faltered, he continued quickly. “But I had a note from him.” When her face lit with renewed hope, Harry hesitated only a second before finishing his thought. “It was brief and unsigned, but I know it was from him.”

She relaxed against the pillows and closed her eyes. “It is enough for now, Mr. Potter, just to know that he is alive.”

Harry waited a moment for her to say more, but then realized that she seemed to be drifting off. He fished the bag of potions from his pocket. “Mrs. Malfoy, wait. You need to take these before you go back to sleep.”

She had to force her eyes open. Harry braced an arm around her shoulders and helped her hold the vials steady while she swallowed their contents. As he settled her back against the pillows, he quietly called out, “Kreacher?”

The old elf popped into sight at the foot of the bed, startling Mrs. Malfoy awake again. Her eyes went wide as she looked from Kreacher to Harry and back again.

“You remember Kreacher, don’t you?” Harry asked. At her hesitant nod, he smiled. “He serves me now, but I’m going to leave him here to take care of you.” Harry waited until she nodded and focused her attention on him. “I’m not going to tell you that you have to stay here—you’ve already been a prisoner much too long. But if you leave, I can’t guarantee your safety. This house is small, but it’s comfortable and, more importantly, it’s under a Fidelius Charm with me as the Secret Keeper. I hope you’ll stay. Kreacher will see to your needs and get you away from here, if for some reason the Charm and the other wards are breached.”

She shifted her eyes to the ceiling and swallowed heavily. “I don’t… I can’t… repay…” Her voice grew thick and she trailed off, a tear trickling down the side of her face.

Harry stood. “You don’t owe—” No. This wasn’t the time to discuss life debts. “There’s one other thing, though.” He drew a heavy breath and steeled himself to tell her the worst news. “We weren’t able to recover your wand. The house… well, it—”

“Exploded.” Her voice was flat. “The ward was set to trigger if he went through the gate unconscious or bound, or if Draco came in while I was there.” Her eyes widened. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Everyone got out. But maybe you can give us a bit more information about that ward when you’re feeling better, yeah?”

She closed her eyes again and nodded. Harry tucked the blankets around her shoulders and gave her a gentle pat. “You get some rest. Kreacher will be here when you wake up. I, or one of my people, will check in on you tomorrow. I’ll let you know the moment we hear from Mal—Draco.”

A weary smile was her only response as she drifted back to sleep. Harry watched her a moment, then turned to Kreacher. “Let me know immediately if she gets any worse. Or if she tries to leave.”

“Yes, Master Harry. Kreacher will take excellent care of Mistress Narcissa.”

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, his mind already miles away, wondering how long before Draco would get word and pay a visit.

***

Ginny closed the door of her locker and turned around to slump against it, closing her eyes as she let her head fall back with a thump. Merlin, she was beyond tired.

But training wasn’t the problem. Even if Gwenog was in an unnecessary frenzy to whip them into shape for the final match before the mid-season break, Ginny welcomed the chance to work herself to physical exhaustion. Unfortunately, the demands on her body did nothing to calm the endless emotional whirlwind in her head. She’d been holding up reasonably well in the battle against her demons, but the past weekend had badly damaged her defenses. Not even flying could distract her from the flashes of terror for Harry’s safety and the fits of rage at him for taking chances and at herself for not being able to control her mind and emotions. And at every brief lull, the memories of that kiss…

Ginny growled in frustration as she pushed herself away from the locker and hefted her bag to her shoulder. She’d got through this before. She could do it again. Besides, worrying about Harry was completely mental. He was fine. Ron had Flooed Mum after they’d found him at the office Sunday. He’d never even been in danger. But after more than two years of deliberately not dwelling on his fondness for leaping into mortal peril, the brief scare had dredged up her worst memories to conjure images of him tortured or mangled or dead, followed by waves of helplessness and hopelessness that threatened to drown her.

For three days, she’d been battling the need to contact him, to see for herself that he was all right, and her distraction had become obvious. On Monday, she’d had to cut her visit with the children short when she realized that her inattentive presence was doing more harm than good, especially when they were already upset that Harry had missed his regular Sunday evening visit. At practice on Tuesday and today, Gwenog had been even less forgiving, threatening a sideline seat on Saturday if Ginny couldn’t get her head together.

“Hey, Weasley!”

The shout jerked Ginny from her thoughts. She shivered at a cold gust of wind, surprised to find herself already nearing the gates where reserve Beaters Vi Pendry and Belinda Broderick were waiting.

“Wanna come blow off some steam at the Goblet?” Vi asked as Ginny caught up. “They’ll have a crackin’ good Halloween party goin’.”

Without even thinking, Ginny shook her head. “Not tonight. I have plans. But thanks anyway.”

Staring for a moment at the place where they’d Disapparated, Ginny wondered at how easily the lie had come. She had no plans. Well, none that included sitting in a noisy pub, especially not on Halloween night. As always, she wondered how Harry was holding up on this somber anniversary, but then angrily pushed the thoughts away—she couldn’t do anything to help distract him from the memories, and thinking about him only stirred up the turmoil in her head again.

Suddenly, the thought of spending another evening alone in her flat made her skin crawl, and before she even realized she’d decided to go anywhere else, she found herself standing in Ron and Hermione’s garden. Of course, she’d end up here. Who else could she talk to?

Hesitating only a moment, she knocked and pushed the door open far enough to stick her head in, belatedly hoping that they weren’t out for the evening or that she wouldn’t be interrupting anything that would need Obliviation.  

Instead, she saw Hermione sitting at the table with her head on her arms. Ginny was through the door in a flash. “Hermione! What’s wrong?”

Hermione jerked up and jumped to her feet. “Ginny! I wasn’t expecting you.” Swiping at her red puffy eyes and pulling a tissue from her pocket, Hermione turned her back and moved quickly toward the teapot. “Let me put some tea on.”

Ginny wasn’t fooled for a minute. Only one person had ever been able to make Hermione cry like that.

“What did my prat of a brother do now? Where is he? I’ll hex his bollocks off for you.”

Hermione turned and lowered the tissue from her nose, giving Ginny a wickedly wry grin. “You leave Ron’s bollocks alone. I’ve grown quite fond of them, thank you very much.”

“Ewwww!” Ginny threw her hands over her ears. “Don’t say things like that! Now I’m going to have to Scourgify my brain.”

Hermione chuckled and turned back to the tea. “You’ve just come from practice. Have you eaten?” She didn’t wait for an answer before pulling out meat and bread.

Ginny dropped her bag on the floor and settled into a chair at the table with a grateful smile. “So where is the prat?”

Hermione cast a quick look over her shoulder then turned back to her work. “Oh, he’s… erm… helping Harry.”

“Oh,” Ginny said, surprised at Hermione’s guarded response. They probably wouldn’t get far on that train of thought, so Ginny turned to the next obvious topic. “What did you row about?”

Hermione sighed as she set a plate with a huge sandwich and a small mountain of crisps in front of Ginny. “It wasn’t exactly a row. More like an intense discussion.”

Ginny took a bite of her sandwich and waited while Hermione brought the tea to the table, then raised her eyebrows in question as she chewed.

Running a weary hand through her bushier-than-usual hair, Hermione dropped into the opposite chair and propped her elbow on the table to hold up her head. She let out another sigh that sounded like it came from the tips of her toes. “He wants me to see a Mind Healer.”

Ginny stopped the sandwich halfway to her mouth. “ _What_? He had the bollocks to suggest that you’re mental?”

Hermione’s lips twisted into a sad smile. “Oh, he does that quite regularly, but I’ve been a bit more mental than usual lately. I suppose I should have said he wants _us_ to see a Mind Healer.”

Ginny set her sandwich down with a frown. Hermione was the most sane person she knew and Ron would _never_ admit to needing the help of a Mind Healer. Something was completely off. “Why?”

“Oh, Merlin.” Hermione ran her hand over her face. “I really shouldn’t tell you any of this, but I…  well, I don’t know anyone else who would understand and…” She moved her hand from her eyes to give Ginny a piercing look. “And you really need to know what you’re—” She clamped her lips shut and shook her head. “More tea?”

Ginny glanced at her untouched cup and shook her head. She’d rarely seen Hermione this rattled. “Just talk, Hermione. Let me be here for you the way you’ve always been for me.”

Hermione wrapped her hands around her cup and stared into it as if it were her only source of strength. She didn’t look up when she finally started talking. “Sunday… well, I can’t tell you the details, but it’s related to the Dolohov case, although I—” She stopped abruptly and shook her head, as if clearing away unnecessary thoughts. “Anyway, Ron went on a mission with Harry and Scott.”

At Ginny’s gasp, Hermione cast her a wry grin. “Yeah, I know. He’s not supposed to be going on official missions yet. But this _is_ Harry we’re talking about.”

Ginny dropped her eyes and took a sip of her tea, suddenly remembering why she’d come here in the first place and not certain, now, that she wanted to hear the rest of this story. But she steeled herself, determined to be a good friend.

Hermione cleared her throat and picked up the tale again. “Anyway, they were in this house. Ron and Scott went outside to deal with the suspect, and Harry stayed inside to Apparate, erm… the victim to St. Mungo’s. Once Ron and Scott got through the garden gate, the house exploded. No! He’s fine!” Hermione added in a rush as ice exploded in Ginny’s chest. Hermione reached across the table to squeeze her hand in a vice grip. “Breathe, Ginny. He’s fine. He got out. Oh, god, this was exactly why I knew I shouldn’t tell you. Not when I’m not thinking straight, myself.”

Ginny gripped the edge of the table to control the spinning room. She’d been terrified enough about Harry’s safety when she thought he hadn’t been in danger. Knowing that he _had_ been was so much worse. She dragged in several deep breaths and willed her heart rate back to normal. After a moment, Hermione released her and settled back in her chair with a worried frown.

Guilt began to melt the ice in Ginny’s chest. What kind of friend was she, pulling the conversation around to herself like that when Hermione was the one who needed someone to listen? “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be comforting you.”

Hermione’s crooked smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t’ve sprung it on you like that. I’ve had three days to process everything and I’m still having a hard time working through it.” Hermione dropped her face into her hands again, her fingers pressing hard into her eyes. “I just keep thinking, what if Ron had gone back in… what if they’d been closer… what if… what if… what if… it’s just… I’ve known all along what his being an Auror would mean, but I guess I didn’t realize how…” She stopped and ran her fingers into her hair, holding it back as she looked across the table. “I look back, now, at everything we did when we were younger and I just can’t believe how bloody stupid and reckless and… and… arrogant we were. And lucky. So very, very lucky.”

Ginny toyed with her cup and remained silent, not knowing how to respond to the same things she’d sometimes thought over the years. But then, she had her own daring and stupidity to regret; the Carrows still made regular appearances in her nightmares.

Hermione snorted as she sat back in her chair and dropped her hands. “Maybe I’m just getting old. And complacent.” She gave a humorless laugh. “It’s been more than three years since we were living out of a tent, running for our lives. I’ve grown quite fond of our peaceful, boring existence, and now Ron’s got to go and muck it up, following Harry back into danger like they were twelve again.” She shot an apologetic look across the table. “Sorry.”

Ginny smirked. “No problem. I know.”

With a sigh, Hermione leaned forward to wrap her hands around her cup again. “It’s not that I don’t want him to follow his dreams. I do. I DO.” Ginny wondered which of them Hermione was trying to convince. “I know what this means to him. Even after all we’ve done… all _he’s_ done, he still seems to feel this insane need to prove himself, to make a name for himself. Honestly, I’m not sure following in Harry’s footsteps is the way to do it, but I can’t _say_ that to him. And it scares me witless to think about what they might get up to.”

Ginny stared into her cup, afraid to break the silence as Hermione gazed into space. What could she say, after all? She’d come to discuss exactly this. And just knowing that sane, steady Hermione was struggling with the same fear and turmoil as barmy, insecure Ginny was oddly reassuring. The knowledge loosened the knots that had formed in her head over the past few days. She wasn’t alone. She was strong. She could get through this, no matter what happened. 

When Hermione spoke again, her voice was small and breathy. “I just can’t lose him. Not again.”

Surprised, Ginny looked up. “Again?”

Hermione swallowed hard. “When he left us that year. I was sure I’d never see him again… that the Death Eaters would get him. It feels like that again. Like I’m going to lose him and never get him back.”

Ginny reached across the table to squeeze Hermione’s hand. “He’ll be fine. He’s at the top of his class, yeah? He’ll be a good Auror. And besides, Harry already has a partner. Maybe they’ll put Ron with someone who’ll be… less daring. Everything will be fine.” Even as she said the words, Ginny knew they sounded pathetic. But they seemed to work.

Hermione smiled sadly. “I know. I _do_ know. And if I could just make my brain stop…” She drew a steadying breath. “Anyway, that’s what the Mind Healer is all about. A few weeks ago Ha—someone told me that ninety percent of all Auror marriages end badly.” Ginny wondered why Harry would share such a statistic, but before she could ask, Hermione continued. “I did a bit of research and found out that it was more like eighty-eight percent of _all_ relationships, but still… After Minister Shacklebolt took office, he mandated that the Auror Department implement a counseling program to help Auror families deal with the demands and hazards of the job. The program has been in place for only a couple of years, but so far the results have been positive, even though participation has been limited. They really push it to the trainees in their final year. Ron thinks we should give it a go.”

“And?” Ginny prompted, still surprised that her brother would even consider such a move. But then, Hermione had always brought out a side of him that would never have surfaced otherwise.

“We’re going to do it,” Hermione said, then smirked. “If we can find the time, that is. Between his training and studies and my work with… on the Dolohov case, it’ll be hard, but I told him, if they’ll do evening appointments, I’ll make an effort to be there.”

Ginny didn’t miss the way Hermione stumbled over talking about Harry when the conversation turned personal. With a sigh, she wondered if anyone would even bother to tell her if something ever did happen to him. She had no rights where he was concerned—they could hardly even be called friends at this point—but she’d still want to know.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to explode on you like that.” Hermione’s quiet words brought Ginny back from her thoughts with a start. “Did you stop by for a reason? I should’ve asked before…”

“Oh, erm…” Ginny scrambled for a believable response—the need to whinge about her own troubles had waned next to Hermione’s legitimate fears. “I… well, honestly, I was just looking for company. I wasn’t in the mood to spend the evening at home alone again.”

“Well, I’m glad you came,” Hermione said, even though something flashed through her eyes that indicated she might not be saying exactly what she was thinking. She gestured at Ginny’s forgotten sandwich. “You should eat.”

“Yeah.” Ginny looked at the sandwich. The first bite had been tasty, but she wasn’t particularly hungry anymore. She nibbled at a crisp as she watched Hermione freshen their tea and dig through the back of the scullery.

“Ron insists we keep these in there,” Hermione said when she emerged and put a package of Fortescue’s Finest Decadent Double Chocolate Digestive Biscuits on the table.

Ginny couldn’t help grinning. “Of course! That’s where they’re supposed to go. Doesn’t your mum keep them there?” 

Hermione gave her first genuine smile of the evening. “No. My mum doesn’t allow evil instruments of tooth decay in her house.” She chomped gleefully into the crunchy chocolate as she pushed the package toward Ginny.

“Doesn’t she know that chocolate is the cure for everything?” Ginny asked around a bite of her own biscuit.

Hermione nodded, then her eyes narrowed a bit as she took a sip of tea and relaxed against the back of her chair. “So. About that kiss.”

Ginny froze mid-bite. That was the one topic she’d wanted to avoid. Or did she? Talking about it might actually be a bit of a relief. And if she were going to discuss it with anyone, it would be Hermione. But still… “What about it? I helped him remember something and he got so excited he kissed me. End of story.”

Hermione snorted. “So how do you feel about it?”

Ginny concentrated on rubbing the crumbs off the edge of the remainder of her biscuit. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel? He didn’t mean anything by it. Why? Did he say something?”

“No.” Hermione’s tone was sad. “No, he hasn’t said anything.”

“Thought not. He probably doesn’t even remember that he did it. His mind was definitely somewhere else at that point. And it’s not like he ever notices me, anyway.” Ginny stuffed the rest of her biscuit in her mouth to give it something to do besides whinge. Merlin, she sounded pathetic!

“Oh, he notices you. He might be fighting it, but he notices you.” Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes went wide before she closed them with a grimace.

Ginny’s heart leaped into her throat where it lodged against the biscuit she was trying to swallow. Several whacks on the back from Hermione and a half a cup of tea later, Ginny had cleared her lungs and watery eyes to find Hermione frowning at her empty cup as if it had offended her.

“Hermione, what did you mean by that?”

Hermione looked up with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Ron and I decided we were going to stay out of it this time.” The memory of being locked in her room with Harry flashed through Ginny’s mind, but before it could fully blossom, Hermione continued. “You’re both adults now and what you do is your business. It isn’t fair for me to say things that I can’t explain.”

Ginny gaped at her. “And you’re just going to leave it like that? You’re going to say that he’s noticed, but he’s fighting it, and you’re not going to explain why?”

Hermione’s lip disappeared between her teeth and her eyes glittered suspiciously. “I can’t, Ginny. Really, it’s just speculation on my part. He hasn’t said anything—not about you, directly.” Ginny opened her mouth to ask what he _had_ said, but Hermione hurried on. “He’s trying hard to do the right thing, and maybe he _will_ stay away. But Ginny…” Hermione reached across the table to take Ginny’s hand. “Please, please, promise me that, if he doesn’t, you’ll think long and hard about what you’d be getting into before you make a decision. I know how you feel about him. But I have to admit that I’m scared for you… he is who he is, and I can’t bear to think about you going through all of that again if… if something happens to him.”

For several long moments, Ginny stared into Hermione’s pleading eyes as the words sank in. Hermione’s speculation was better than someone else’s solid evidence any day of the week. The fleeting desire Ginny had seen in Harry’s eyes was real. Her heart soared.

“Hermione!” Ginny breathed. “You have to tell me—”

Brown curls flew as Hermione shook her head. “No, I can’t! I’ve already said far more than I should.” She gave Ginny’s hand a squeeze. “Think, Ginny! Think about what happened before, what it did to you. He’s no different. In fact, from what Scott’s told me, he’s worse than ever about jumping in without thinking. Can you live with that? Can you wait and wonder and still be strong? Or, God forbid, survive if he doesn’t?”

A flash of remembered helplessness burst the bubble of hope in Ginny’s chest and she closed her eyes against the near physical pain. Could she live with the uncertainty? Could she survive if the worst happened? The questions were too big to handle right now. Ginny opened her eyes to return Hermione’s burning stare. “And what about you? Would you survive if something happens to Ron?”

Hermione sat back and ran a hand over her face. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but… well, that’s why we’re going to see the Mind Healer. So I’ll have a fair chance, I suppose.” When she looked back across the table, her eyes held a bit of a challenge.

With a small sigh, Ginny nodded, understanding the message. She’d never spoken with anyone but Hermione about Harry and she wasn’t ready to start now. Was she? Perhaps she might reconsider visiting the Harpies’ Mind Healer. Maybe she could just keep it general… not really mention Harry, specifically. It couldn’t hurt… just in case. Right?

***

Harry squirmed in his chair. Not that it wasn’t comfortable. He’d just been sitting in it forever… and he was only a couple of hours into his shift. At least he had the perfect excuse to miss the Weasley Sunday gathering—he still hadn’t worked out how he was going to face Ginny… but he could think about that later.

A full week had passed since the rescue. Mrs. Malfoy had improved considerably and, on the promise of a potential reunion with Draco, had settled into the cottage. Expecting Dolohov to send someone to finish her off, Harry had been taking it in turns with Ron and Summers to guard “her room” at St. Mungo’s, warding off one corner with the same spells Hermione had used to hide their tent during that year on the run. The shields offered more freedom than an Invisibility Cloak and better concealment than a Disillusionment Charm, even blocking the spell used to detect human presence, which would give them the element of surprise against intruders. And being able to use a lamp for reading really helped when the only relief from the hypnotic “breathing” of the illusion on the bed was the nurse coming in to dawdle about as a ruse to convince outsiders that Mrs. Malfoy was being tended.

The week’s only excitement had come when someone tapped the wards on Wednesday, just before midnight when Harry was due to relieve Ron. But whoever it was had retreated before they could be contained.

Unable to get comfortable in the chair, Harry stood and paced in the small square of floor, trying to get his blood moving and keep his arse from going numb. He froze as the door creaked open. The outer wards hadn’t signaled intruders, but the nurse wasn’t due for another hour or so. Dousing the light so he could see better into the dimly lit part of the room, he moved to the edge of the shield, wand in one hand, Portkey in the other, just in case.

Two black-cloaked figures paused just inside the door. From his position in the corner behind them, Harry couldn’t see their faces, but from their stature, he could tell they were most likely men. 

One figure took several cautious steps forward, swishing his wand in a broad stroke around the room. He paused and shook his head slightly, then repeated the motion.

“Come on, Malfoy,” the other hissed. “Get on with it and let’s get out of here.”

Malfoy. Harry could’ve shouted his relief. But when the wand swished once more, Harry realized the problem. Malfoy was checking for human presence and finding none… including his mother.

Without thinking, Harry stunned the other wizard. Malfoy whirled around, his hood falling back to reveal his startled face. In a single movement, Harry activated the portkey and tossed it into the air…

“Catch!”

…then launched himself after it. Malfoy’s hand automatically shot out to snag the glowing walnut. Harry grabbed him around the waist.

The world spun away. 


	47. Fighting for Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to take matters into your own hands.

Harry and Malfoy landed with a thud on the frozen ground beneath the copse, already grabbing for each other’s wands.

“Where is she, you bastard?” Malfoy growled, grunting at the elbow in his ribs and countering with a knee that drew a yelp from Harry. They tumbled about, punching and scratching and kicking until, finally, Harry wrenched Malfoy’s wand free and scrambled to his feet.

“Long time… no see… Malfoy.” Harry panted, straightening his glasses and taking a step back. He gestured with his wand as he pocketed Malfoy’s. “Get up.”

Malfoy closed his eyes and let his head fall back to the ground as he worked to catch his breath. “Potter. Should’ve known.” He heaved a sigh and took his time getting to his feet, swiping futilely at the mud and leaves clinging to his cloak and hair. “Why is it whenever you’re around I end up filthy?”

Harry smirked. “Guess I just know how to bring out the real you.” He Summoned the Portkey from where it had rolled beneath a bush. They’d need it again in a bit.

Malfoy watched the walnut zoom into Harry’s hand with only a raised eyebrow as comment. He gave his robes a final shake, crossed his arms, and fixed on a haughty glare. “Where is she?”

“Safer and a sight more comfortable than where you left her.” The answering flinch was subtle, but Harry was watching for it. “And if you play nice, I might even let you see her.”

Malfoy lunged, fingers curled for attack, but when Harry’s wand met his throat, he backed down and clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”

“Information. And more than just a cryptic ‘watch the coasts.’”

Malfoy threw his hands into the air. “I told you before, he doesn’t confide in me.”

“Yeah, well, I might’ve _remembered_ that, if you hadn’t bloody _Obliviated_ me!” Harry’s voice rose to a shout on the final words.

Malfoy took the volume up another notch. “You wanted me to take you to him! He would’ve tortured and killed my mother, _after_ he let her watch while he eviscerated me. She didn’t deserve that!”

Harry leaned into Malfoy’s face and roared, “And if you’d given me half a chance, I could’ve got her out before she was beaten and half starved by your evil twin! She didn’t deserve that either!”

Malfoy wilted in a heartbeat, anguish on his face. “No… I didn’t… is she…?”

“She’s fine. Or better, at any rate,” Harry said, his voice returning to normal. “I’ll take you to her in a bit. But I need to know what Dolohov’s planning.” He held up a hand at Malfoy’s move to protest.  “I know you don’t know everything, but tell me what you _do_ know.”

Malfoy groaned. “Don’t you listen? I know _nothing_! Or next to it! I can’t even tell you everything about the Potions operation and I’m supposed to be in charge of it.”

“What about the villages that have vanished? How is he doing that? How can we get in?”

Malfoy grabbed the front of Harry’s jacket and drew them nose-to-nose. “Get this through your thick skull, Scarhead. I… DON’T… KNOW! I Portkey in. I Portkey out. I don’t even know where most of my own operations are located. Dolohov takes paranoia to a whole new dimension.”

Harry threw off Malfoy’s hands. “Don’t give me that. You have to—”

“No! I don’t! Since he took my mother, I’ve kept my head down. I don’t ask questions. I don’t stir up trouble. I just do what I’m bloody well told. Whatever it takes to keep us both alive.”

Nose-to-nose again, glaring and practically snarling, they held the pose for several long moments. Malfoy had to be telling the truth—he had too much at stake not to. Harry finally gave in with a growl. “Well, if you don’t know, then you have to find out.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything!”

Harry gave him a grim smile. “You started this, you have to finish it. I need to know what Dolohov is up to, how to get to him, and you’re the best person to find out.”

Their glares locked again until Malfoy’s clouded with despair and he dropped his head into his hands. “No… please… This was my way out.”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I was going to kill Petrovna, then take Mother and run.”

“Run? Where could you run? Especially when you believed she was… ill?”

Malfoy lifted his head and stared out through the trees into the fading daylight. Harry had never seen him look so defeated, even at the end of sixth year. “Canada. I located an Ojibway Healer who’s had some success with memory charm victims… not that we need him now.” His tone became tinged with hope as he began speaking more to himself. “We could go anywhere, now. Australia, America… change our looks, blend in with the masses, live without magic… we’ve done it before.” He turned back with a pleading expression that had probably never graced a Malfoy face. “Just… please, Potter, let me take Mother and go. I can’t do this anymore.”

Harry almost felt sorry for him—he’d been in that same state of mind himself more times than he could count. But Dolohov had to be stopped or the future would turn grim for everyone. Harry lowered his voice, infusing it with genuine concern.

“You honestly believe he’d just let you disappear like that? You’d be running for the rest of your lives, always looking over your shoulder. Is that the way you want to live? Can you really do that to your mother after everything she’s been through? She’s safe where she is. And I’ll give you a Wizard’s Oath that I’ll do everything in my power to keep her that way.”

“And what makes you think Dolohov will let me back in now, anyway?” Malfoy’s anger was back. “He sent me to kill her as proof of my loyalty. Petrovna’s going to go back and—”

“Then you’ll have to kill her.”

Malfoy’s jaw dropped.

Harry rolled his eyes. “The illusion, wanker. That Stunner should hold for another hour or so. We go back, Obliviate the last few minutes of his memory, and wake him up. You AK the illusion on the bed. I’ll end the animation spell and set off the Healer’s alarms. You use your escape Portkey—don’t look at me like that, I’m not the idiot you think I am. Your colleague reports to Dolohov that you did the deed as ordered. The papers hint that the Ministry is covering up a murder because it happened on my watch. Dolohov will probably promote you or something and you’ll be in the perfect position to become my informant again. Snape would be proud.”

Malfoy held his incredulous stare for several moments before he snorted. “Got it all planned out, have you?”

“You have a better idea?”

“Yeah, take Mother and go.”

“Your mother’s safe. And still recuperating. She’s better off where she is.”

“And if I disagree? If I decide to leave anyway?”

Harry heaved a heavy sigh. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Come to what?”

Jiggling the tip of the wand still pointed at Malfoy, Harry shook his head sadly. “If you’re not willing to work with me, I can’t let you leave. I’ll have to take you into custody.”

Malfoy threw his head back and growled at the sky, running his hands through his hair with uncharacteristic abandon. “Am I never going to be my own master? If it’s not the Dark Lord or Dolohov, it’s you directing my life. Just go ahead and Crucio me now, Potter. That’s how all the _real_ tyrants keep their subjects in line.”

“Quit being such a drama queen. I said work _with_ me, Malfoy. I’m just laying out your options. If you choose to work _with_ me, your mother’s safety is guaranteed and, once Dolohov is stopped, I’ll testify on your behalf.”

“I don’t hear you guaranteeing my freedom,” Malfoy said.

“I can’t say right now what will happen, but I’ll do what I can.” Harry paused, waiting until Malfoy raised an eyebrow in question. “On the other hand, if you choose not to work with me, you’re definitely joining your father in Azkaban.”

Malfoy sagged against a nearby tree, hanging his head and wearily rubbing at his eyes. The wind howled beyond the confines of the protection charms that encased their shelter. Harry gave Malfoy a few minutes to think, but they didn’t have all night.

“I’m not trying to rush you, but that Stunner won’t last forever,” Harry murmured.

Malfoy raised his head. His eyes were dull, his voice flat. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Harry gave a curt nod. He hadn’t expected enthusiasm. They could seal the deal later. “Let’s go see your mother, then. She’s at Stormhaven Cove.”

Malfoy trailed behind in silence over the rise and between the outcrops. Harry glanced back to be sure Malfoy could see the cottage, then walked ahead to push the door open. He paused at the threshold. Mrs. Malfoy sat in one of the comfy blue armchairs in the sitting area, needlework abandoned in her lap as she stared blindly into the fire. She looked up only when Kreacher greeted Harry.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.” She set her embroidery hoop aside and smoothed her robes. “How nice to see you.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy. I’ve brought you a visitor.” He stepped aside and her hand flew to her mouth as she broke into tears. “Ten minutes,” he said quietly as Malfoy brushed past.

Harry stepped back outside to give them a bit of privacy and called Kreacher out for a report on her progress over the past week. She hadn’t been eating well or doing much more than staring into the fire and sleeping, but otherwise seemed to be healing from her injuries. Harry made a mental note to see if Healer Mellowheath would be willing to make a house call, but he strongly suspected that seeing her son would do Mrs. Malfoy the most good.

When Harry opened the door again, the pair was seated close together on the small sofa holding an intense, murmured conversation. He hated to break up the reunion, but they really needed to get back. “Malfoy. It’s time.”

Malfoy sent a glare across the room, even as he stood and pulled his mother into his arms for a tight hug. She clung to him, but seemed to have regained control of her emotions.

“You can come back anytime, Malfoy,” Harry said.

Malfoy jerked his head up in surprise.

“You have the location. Just don’t try to take her away or bring anyone else with you. I can’t guarantee her safety, if you do.”

Mrs. Malfoy surprised them both by stepping away from Draco to cross the room and grasp Harry’s hand with both of hers, pulling it to her lips for a kiss. She looked up with tear-filled eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. Consider our account settled.”

So she _had_ thought about the life debt. Harry squeezed her fingers and gave her a grim smile. “Perhaps you should hold that thought until we’ve finished our business with Dolohov.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder at her son, who pressed his lips together but held her gaze until she turned back to Harry. “Between you and Draco, he doesn’t stand a chance.”

Squeezing her hands once more before releasing them, Harry shot a look at Malfoy, then stepped outside without waiting for an answer. Malfoy followed only a moment later. As soon as he’d closed the door, Harry turned to face him.

“Just so you know, I’m not holding her prisoner—she can leave of her own accord whenever she wants, although I’ve asked her not to. Also, I’ve got alerts set to let me know when you come, and anti-Apparition wards in place. Kreacher is charged with getting her to another secure location if she’s in danger or if someone tries to force her to leave.”

Malfoy recognized the challenge in Harry’s voice and lifted his chin. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Harry studied Malfoy’s face. The defeat was gone, replaced by something that seemed like a cross between resignation and determination. The time had come to make sure this plan was going to work.

“Malfoy, you know I’ll do what I can to keep her safe, no matter what, but I have to know… Can I count on you?”

The grey eyes grew steely cold. Malfoy threw back his shoulders and flexed the muscle in his jaw. “I’m in. Let’s get that bastard.”

Releasing an inner sigh of relief, Harry nodded. “You still have the charmed Galleon?”

Malfoy put a hand in his pocket, then held the coin up.

“Use it to let me know when we can meet again and work out a plan—before the end of the week, if possible,” Harry said as he returned Malfoy’s wand and pulled the walnut from his pocket.

“Potter, wait.” Malfoy stopped the movement of Harry’s wand toward the Portkey.

Harry lifted one eyebrow.

Shifting his glance downward and shuffling his feet, Malfoy seemed to shrink for a moment before drawing himself back into his aristocratic pose and meeting Harry’s eyes again. “As current head of the Malfoy family, I offer you our deepest gratitude for your guardianship of my mother.”

Harry worked hard to keep his expression blank. Pleading _and_ gratitude from Malfoy in less than an hour? Who would’ve ever thought? Harry gave him a sharp nod and extended the walnut for Malfoy to touch. “Keep this, when we get there,” Harry said. “The trigger word to come back here is ‘Severus.’”

Malfoy’s surprised face was the last thing Harry saw before the hook behind his navel snatched him away.

***

_Oh, he notices you. He might be fighting it, but he notices you… please, promise me you’ll think long and hard about what you’d be getting into… he’s worse than ever about jumping in without thinking. Can you live with that? Can you wait and wonder and still be strong? Or, God forbid, survive if he doesn’t?_

Hermione’s words had been bouncing around in Ginny’s head for more than a week, and she was no closer to having an answer than when she’d first heard them. Although, at this moment, she had a hard time believing them. Harry certainly didn’t seem to be noticing her now.

But then, he wasn’t really paying attention to anyone but the children. He’d made it obvious that he didn’t want to be here. When it became clear that he was going to try to skive off Sunday lunch for the third week in a row, Hermione had sent Ron—Kreacher still barely tolerated her—to go and fetch him. Harry had given Mum some lame excuse about losing track of the time while catching up on paperwork. Hermione had snorted quietly and muttered, “I finished it yesterday.”

Ginny wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected—or hoped—when she faced Harry again, but she wasn’t too surprised that they’d gone back to avoiding each other. A steady downpour had consigned everyone indoors, making the intricate dance a bit more challenging, but it was almost comforting in its familiarity and she didn’t have to think too hard about it… just follow Harry’s lead.

From behind her book in the corner, Ginny watched him across the sitting room helping Teddy and Victoire build houses with an ancient deck of Exploding Snap cards. Harry must have charmed them to stand on edge better under small, unsteady hands and to detonate more than they could possibly manage on their own. The kids chattered and giggled and jumped with joy when the cards blew up—little more than tired _pfffts_ —sending their lopsided structures flying.

Harry laughed with the children, but for a change, he wasn’t totally engaged. His eyes didn’t sparkle as they usually did when he watched them and his movements seemed sluggish and weary. For a moment, Ginny remembered the impulse she’d had at the pub to smooth away the lines of exhaustion creasing his face. And then she remembered her anger and confusion and frustration and the way he’d teased and taunted and smiled at her. And she remembered Hermione’s words again.

With a small huff, Ginny laid her book aside. She couldn’t think down here, not with him sitting there looking so… so… Harry.

Giving a tiny shake of her head at Hermione’s look of concern, Ginny kept her face blank and her gait casual—like she was going to the loo—as she headed for the stairs and the sanctuary of her old room. The gloomy day left the space heavily shadowed and chilly, but Ginny walked gratefully into its welcoming arms, pushing the door almost closed behind her and taking up her favorite spot by the window. She usually found some semblance of peace here, staring out onto the land that had nurtured her for two decades. Unfortunately, the grey deluge masked the comforting sight.

Ginny sighed and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She was so bloody tired of chasing her thoughts in circles, but she couldn’t bring herself to go looking for help. Hermione and Ron had come back from their first counseling session gushing about what a difference it had already made. But Ginny still hadn’t been able to bring herself even to talk with Hermione again, much less make an appointment with Healer Andrews. She already knew what the Healer would tell her anyway: control what you can control so that the uncontrollable has less control… or something like that.

When first given, that advice had led to Muggle self-defense lessons so that Ginny wouldn’t feel quite so helpless if she were disarmed. Of course, being able to execute a perfect chin jab or hammer punch wouldn’t protect her from a Stunner or Body Bind, but she’d found comfort and confidence in knowing that she could go down fighting.

But then, while working to banish her demons and control her own issues, she’d never touched on her fears for Harry. What was the point? With Harry being… well, Harry, those fears were far beyond her control. She gave a soft humorless grunt of laughter. Indeed. How could little Ginny Weasley’s needs possibly compete with the great Harry Potter’s innate drive to stop Dark wizards and save everyone?

Hermione’s warning echoed once more in Ginny’s head. In spite of loving him heart and soul, could she honestly handle knowing that Harry would always be flinging himself into danger, with no thought for leaving her behind to survive the consequences? Could she really endure the endless waiting and wondering when he turned up missing or injured? Would even the peaceful interludes be tainted by anticipation of his next crisis? These things had never bothered her when she was younger—but that was before she’d known him… intimately. 

Closing her eyes, Ginny sagged against the window frame. The questions didn’t matter, anyway. The fact that he was fighting his attraction to her—and winning—was proof enough that she’d always be no more than second, if that, in his life. But, in spite of it all, she longed to grab whatever piece of himself he’d allow her… to bear the pain for the fleeting bliss he could offer, even though she knew it would likely leave her hopelessly lost. 

Of all the demons she’d battled through the years, she’d never dreamed that Harry would become the biggest.

The stairs creaked. Ginny opened her eyes to look out on the grey landscape, but didn’t move, even when someone stepped into the room and pushed the door closed. Her sixth sense told her who it was. Now that she thought about it, she wasn’t surprised that he’d followed. His unbridled guilt complex would never let their last encounter go without comment.

“Ginny.” His voice was low and gravelly, as if he hadn’t spoken in a while. “Can we talk?”

She stared out the window for another moment before turning to face him. Leaning back against the window frame, she kept her face carefully blank and waited. This was his show.

His eyes darted about the room for a moment, emotions flitting through them too quickly to identify, before settling on the window over her shoulder. The tip of his tongue snaked out between his lips and his Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively as if his words were jumping into formation.

“Erm… I need to apologize… for, erm… what happened… at the pub.” He paused and flicked a glance at her face. When she only cocked her head and remained silent, he shifted his weight and turned his gaze back through the window. “I was tired and I wasn’t thinking. But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have… well… just… I wouldn’t want you to think… I’m sorry and I…” He shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders as if bracing for a blow, but he didn’t look directly at her.

Ginny remained still, studying him. He was dressed all in black—faded denims and a buttoned shirt that molded to the muscles they covered. At least a day’s worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair curled wildly around his face. His eyes were dull but determined. The inevitable coil of desire tightened between her hips.

He shot a glance her way, then back to the window. His jaw flexed.

Ginny fought back a smirk. He was waiting for absolution—hoping for forgiveness, expecting punishment. She pulled her wand from her pocket and pushed off from the wall, even though she wasn’t certain, yet, what she was going to do. Forgiveness would be easy. But watching him squirm was more fun.

He shifted his weight and swallowed again.

She covered the space between them and stopped within arm’s reach. Why should she let him off the hook? She’d been suffering for more than a week—had nearly been sidelined for the match because she couldn’t concentrate. It was only right that he got a taste of his own medicine. Of course, the stupid git would probably bolt and she’d never see him again except from a distance, if she were lucky. But even if it had no lingering effect, this was probably her last chance ever to have a go at him. And by Merlin, she was going to make the most of it.

Finally letting her smirk free, she raised her wand. He breathed heavily through his nose and closed his eyes, a resigned look coming across his face. His hands remained clasped behind him.

Perfect!

Before she could change her mind, she stepped forward and pulled his head down, fitting her mouth to his. He gasped, and she jumped at the chance to slip her tongue past his lips, inviting his to dance. To her surprise, he responded with an anguished moan, tilting his head slightly to fasten himself more securely to her. She twisted her fingers into his hair and poured all of her longing and need into the kiss, reveling in his answering desire. He leaned into her, following her tongue with his into her mouth. Desire exploded in her gut and stars blossomed behind her eyelids. He tasted faintly of treacle tart and Butterbeer, and she had to fight to keep from sinking into the glorious feel of him, his ragged breath ghosting her cheek, his scent filling her head. This was what she’d longed for and she took what he offered, storing the memory to soothe the regret that was sure to come later.  

He shifted his weight and brought his arms around to hold her. Before he could complete the move, she stepped back, breaking their connection. He stumbled forward, his mouth still working, his eyes opening wide in confusion.

She took another step beyond his reach, and drew in a deep breath to gather her strength. Now was not the time to give in to temptation. She wanted him to want her enough to make the first move—otherwise, he’d just disappear again.

“ _That’s_ the way it’s done, Potter.” Her voice was more breathless than she would’ve liked, but from his glassy, blown stare, she doubted that he’d notice.

Before he could gather his wits, she dodged past him and ran for the Floo.

***

Harry paced impatiently around the clearing. Maybe he’d come to the wrong place. The message had only said, “ _Midnight. I’ll find you,”_ so Harry had chosen the Forest of Dean, where they’d first come to establish this questionable liaison. But midnight had come and gone.

Malfoy was late, in more ways than one.

Nearly two weeks had passed since he’d reluctantly agreed to reactivate his informant status, but he hadn’t been to see his mother, either, so Harry had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even so, the message this morning had brought with it huge relief, primarily in convincing Robards that it hadn’t been a mistake to trust Malfoy, especially with the lighthouse wards going mad for the past three days. Even with the British team Apparating in within seconds of each breach, only a few of Dolohov’s lackeys had been captured, and, of course, none of them knew anything. Harry was certain they’d been sent to find the best entry into the country, or possibly even to serve as a distraction for some other devious plot—the European allies had been equally tested over the past week.

Harry had been almost grateful for all of the activity. It had given him something to think about besides the near disaster with Ginny on Sunday afternoon.

He’d kicked himself black and blue over letting things get so out of hand. Yes, he’d needed to apologize, but going into her room? How much more totally brainless could he possibly be? He’d realized the critical error in the first second, when the memories they’d made in that room had nearly taken him down, but by then it was too late to turn back.

Her lack of response had surprised him. He’d expected anger, disdain, or maybe, though less likely, tears. Regardless, he’d been prepared—even eager—for whatever hex she chose as his punishment. Hell, he’d even slipped his wand into his boot, put his hands behind his back, and closed his eyes so his stupid defense reflexes couldn’t kick in. What she’d done had been so much worse than a hex. He had to wonder if she’d known what she was doing to him, or if she’d simply been acting on her own desires. Either way, if she hadn’t stepped away when she did, he couldn’t have turned back. The monster in his chest had gone wild. God, even now, he could taste her, and his body burned with the craving of an addict deprived of his fix.

The answer to that problem was obvious.

Sundays at the Burrow were no longer an option, no matter who came after him. He’d have to find another day to visit with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but he couldn’t go again when he knew Ginny would be there.

The monster gave a pitiful howl.

“Shut it, you,” he muttered, then stopped pacing and ran his hands into his hair with a groan. Now he was talking to imaginary internal monsters. Demons, more like. Mad didn’t begin to describe his state of mind. And he shouldn’t be thinking about this again, anyway. He had more important issues to deal with, like the rise of the next Dark Lord.

“Where _are_ you, Malfoy?!”

“Right here.”

Harry jumped and spun, his wand snapping into his palm before he landed. “Where have you been?”

Wearing a cloak that was dark as night, the hood up to hide his hair, Malfoy slowly morphed out of the shadows. “Oh, you know, I was so enjoying this little holiday you sent me on that I just couldn’t tear myself away. Who were you talking to?”

Harry hoped the dim light hid the flush of warmth that washed over his face. “No one.”

“Ah, think that highly of yourself, do you?”

“What, you never talk to yourself, Malfoy?”

“Of course I do. I like talking to someone intelligent and hearing what someone intelligent has to say.”

Harry could hear the smirk more than see it. He blurted the question that had been on his mind since that morning. “Your message said you’d find me. How?”

Malfoy stepped into a beam of moonlight and, this time, the smirk was obvious. “Charmed my Galleon to find yours.”

“Oh? So I can—”

“No! You can’t.” Before Harry could argue, Malfoy continued. “I don’t have time for our usual witty repartee. I have quite a bit of information to pass along, per our agreement, and a Portkey that will activate in ten minutes.”

The hope that leapt in Harry’s chest must’ve shown on his face. Malfoy took a step back.

“Don’t even think about it, Potter. It would be suicide. For both of us.”

Harry took a step closer. “Not if I wore my cloak.”

Malfoy took two steps back. “I’m not taking you. He’s gathering his forces. Something big is going down, only he won’t tell us what or when until it’s time to go. But I think it must be soon. He’s called more than fifty of his best fighters into one of the hidden villages—no, I don’t know which one,” he interjected when Harry opened his mouth to ask. “Portkey, remember?”

“All the more reason to take me with you.”

“With no back-up and no one knowing that you’ve gone? _Think_ , Potter. What could you possibly accomplish like that? It’s better that you go back and prepare your troops.”

Harry carded his fingers through his hair again. Unfortunately, Malfoy was probably right… this time. “All right. What else do you know?”

“Not much more than that. Just that whatever it is will be huge. He keeps talking about making a statement, giving the Ministry notice that its days are numbered. And it will involve a lot of people. He’s had me working on a potion that is designed to act like Imperius on a big crowd. When the vials are shattered, they produce a pervasive gas, sort of like Dung Bombs. You’ll need to use Bubble Head Charms to—”

“Oh, God!” Harry gasped, his stomach dropping into a Wronski Feint. “The Quidditch match!”

Malfoy looked puzzled. “Quidditch match? But isn’t it the holiday break?”

“It’s a charity match to raise money for the children’s home.”

“The one named after your parents.” Malfoy made it a statement rather than a question, though his tone didn’t hold the insult Harry would’ve expected. Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “Yes, he’d especially like that… to attack something connected with you. When is it?”

“Tomorrow—or, today, now. In about ten hours.”

Malfoy swore under his breath. “Too late to cancel?”

“Dunno. I can try. Are we one hundred percent sure?”

“A well-publicized event with a huge, unarmed crowd? I’d bet my vault on it, not that it’s worth much these days,” Malfoy said.

Harry grimaced. “I need to get back. Was that all?”

“Just that Dolohov seems to be using the hidden villages as his bases. He moves between them randomly, but that’s where he summons us. I still don’t know how he’s cloaking them, but I’ll see what—”

Harry had all he could do to keep himself from leaping forward to latch on as the amulet hanging around Malfoy’s neck started to glow. In a heartbeat, Malfoy was gone.

“SHITE!” Harry shouted at the stars, then turned and sent five glowing stags galloping into the night.


	48. Death Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the worst happens, can Ginny handle it?

Inviting George Weasley and Gawain Robards to the same meeting wasn't one of Harry’s better ideas. They had joined forces and turned what should’ve been a no-brainer decision in to an hour-long debate.

“We can’t cancel the match,” George said for the fiftieth time. “We don’t know for certain there will be an attack, and canceling will mean refunding all those tickets. Instead of securing the future for those children, we’ll be bleeding red ink. Besides, most of the vendors have already set up, and people will be lining up at the gate soon. We don’t have time to get the word out before the place is crawling with people.”

“He’s right,” Robards growled. “No point creating panic on the basis of questionable intelligence.”

Harry bit his tongue on the obvious comeback. Why hadn't he lied from the start, instead of relaying his conversation with Malfoy? “And what if I’m right? We’ll be endangering thousands of people!”

“A team of Aurors has already been assigned to the match,” Robards said, but he clearly didn’t see the need for them any more now than when Harry had first requested additional security.

Harry couldn’t hold back his sneer. “Yes, I know you’ve chosen the cream of the crop for this assignment.”

A purple flush worked its way toward the top of Robards’s head, signaling an imminent explosion.

“Do we know how many off-duty Aurors will be in attendance?” Hermione cut in quickly. Harry could’ve kissed her.

“I sold tickets to at least twenty,” Ron said. “Might be more that bought them, too.”

As the rest of the group began naming off those they thought were planning to attend, Harry took a moment to consider the direction the discussion had taken. As much as he hated the thought of compromising so many people, canceling the match might tip off Dolohov that the attack had been leaked and jeopardize Malfoy’s cover. But making “coincidental” preparations could give them an edge in finally capturing the bastard and putting an end to the madness. And besides, Robards didn’t look ready to budge an inch.

With time flying, Harry gave in to the inevitable. “Okay, can we call in everyone who’ll be there and brief them?”

“If they’re unarmed, it won’t matter,” Summers said.

“I can alert security to let them keep their wands.” George seemed ready to help now that he’d got his way.

“Why not let everyone keep their wands?” Ron’s quiet question brought stunned silence and turned every head in the room in his direction. His ear tips flamed as he shrugged. “’S’not an official match. Dolohov’s expecting an unarmed crowd. Even if people don’t fight, they’ll at least be able to protect themselves.”

Harry beamed at him. “Brilliant, Ron!”

The rest of Ron’s head flushed crimson, but he sat a little straighter as the rest of the room broke out in excited agreement. Even Robards looked impressed.

Harry took control again. “George, can you tell Jones and Wood to have the players carry their wands, as well? We don’t need unarmed players in the sky.” George nodded.

“Don’t tell them why,” Robards barked. “Someone will leak it and we don’t need the press getting hold of this. It’ll make us look ridiculous when nothing happens.”

Harry gripped the arms of his chair to keep from launching himself at the barmy troll—they’d look even more ridiculous when something _did_ happen, and they hadn’t warned anyone. But they didn’t have time for another argument. Letting his glare speak for him, he reluctantly broke eye contact with Robards and turned to Summers.

“Put out the call asking all Aurors planning to attend the match to meet at the stadium an hour early. Tell them not to come in uniform. It’ll be better if they blend into the crowd.” As he spoke, Harry raised a challenging eyebrow at Robards and received a scowl and a curt nod in return. “And double-check the Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey wards on the stadium. We can’t keep them from flying in, but at least I’ll be high enough to see them coming and sound an alarm.”

As Summers got up to leave, Harry held up a hand to stop him. “Wait. We still need to work out what to do about the Imperius Bombs. When the Aurors use Bubble Head Charms, the crowd will likely pick up on it, but some of them, the children especially, may not know how to do it. Any suggestions?” Harry looked around the table, then stopped at the pained expression on George’s face. “George?”

Ron chuckled. “He’s just calculating his losses on the new product he was going to introduce next month and make a fortune on during the Christmas shopping rush.”

George glared at his brother, then sighed heavily. “Bubble-Head Beanies.”

“Yes! Ron told me about those.” Hermione was practically bouncing in her seat. “They work like the Shield Hats, don’t they? They’ll be perfect as give-aways!”

“The problem is,” George said, “I don’t have enough for the whole crowd.”

“What about just the children?” Harry asked.

“We’re expecting at least half the crowd to be children,” George said. “But we might be able to include everyone twelve and under. It’ll wipe out my inventory, but I reckon it’s for a good cause.”

“Not to mention, good advertising,” Ron added with a smirk.

George ran a weary hand over his face. “There is that, I suppose.”

“Thanks, George,” Harry said. The words didn’t express the depth of his sincerity, but he hoped George would read it in his eyes. “We can talk later about sharing the cost.”

But from the look on his face, George was already thinking about other things. He brushed off the suggestion with a negligent wave and stood. “I need to get moving. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Ron, can you contact the Harpies management and see if we can use one of their meeting rooms for the Auror briefing?”

Ron nodded and rushed to catch up with Summers, who had followed George out.

“Will you be at the match?” Harry asked Robards as the remaining three of them stood.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” His tone said he’d rather be anywhere else. “And I’ll brief the Minister. I wouldn’t bother, since this whole exercise is unnecessary, but I think he’s planning to bring his grandson, and he’ll have questions about the extra precautions. I’ll add another man to his security detail and put a few more wards on his box, too. Not that it’ll be needed, but I don’t reckon it’ll hurt anything.”

As Robards stomped from the room, Harry slumped back into his chair and ran his hands through his hair with a groan. “Merlin, I hope he’s right, but _why_ does he have to do that?”

Hermione patted him on the shoulder. “He’s testing you.”

“ _What_?” Harry jerked up and twisted in his seat to look up at her. “You can’t possibly mean that he’s being a complete wanker and putting thousands of people in danger just to see if I’ll fall on my face?”

“Oh, no.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze and settled into the chair next to him. “No, I think he firmly believes your informant is wrong about the attack. But I was watching him during the meeting. The whole time, he was assessing every decision you made and the way you gave out assignments.”

“Yeah, looking for something to use to sack me, no doubt,” Harry grumbled.

Hermione’s face took on that look that she always got when she was finally putting together a confusing puzzle. “No, honestly, he looked… well, satisfied is the best way to describe it. I think he believes he’s right, but I also think he gives you a harder time about it than he would anyone else because he wants to see how you’ll handle it.”

“Great!” Harry pushed his fingers under his glasses to scrub at his eyes. “And why, oh wise seer, would he be testing me, if not to try and trip me up?”

“I’m not sure.” She had a faraway look, like she was considering some clue that didn’t make sense. Then, she snapped back into focus. “But I’ll have to think on it later. Right now we need to get moving. What do you need me to do?”

“Let’s go ward my box at the stadium,” Harry said as he stood. “The children from the home will be up there, and I’m sure Dolohov would find them a tempting target.”

***

Something was off, but as she stared down at the festive crowd cheering for the bumbling players below, Ginny couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

Of course, the whole match was “off,” with the Harpies all playing the wrong positions and the crowd foregoing its usual rabid intensity for a more festive mood. Families had come out in force to enjoy the carnival activities and vendor tents that George had organized. He must be the one behind the Bubble Heads that all the kids were wearing, too. The charity match looked to be a rousing success so far. George had really outdone himself this time.

But the more she thought about it, George was also the reason for her vague uneasiness.

She hadn’t thought much about his gathering the two teams before their warm-up session to remind them that the match was for fun and that they needed to keep things clean. And she hadn’t been surprised when he’d instructed her and Harry to make an occasional, flashy show of battling for the Snitch, but not to catch it too quickly—the longer the match went on, the more time people would have to make purchases at the vendor tents and, with five percent of the proceeds going to the children’s home, the more money they’d make.

But she’d been more than a bit startled when he’d announced that security wasn’t going to make the spectators check their wands because it wasn’t an official match and they didn’t think the family-oriented crowd would be a problem—but that the players should carry their wands, too, “just in case.” No one else seemed bothered by his casual delivery of the change in protocol, but Ginny wasn’t fooled. George had been selling a load of Hippogriff dung. She just wasn’t sure why.

Fifteen minutes into the match, Ginny was already bored. Seekers might get most of the glory, but Chasers got all of the action. Shifting to a more comfortable position on her broom, Ginny started another lazy circle toward the goal posts and watched Harry mirror her movement across the pitch. Today was the first time they’d seen each other since she had kissed him last Sunday.

At the team meeting, he’d barely acknowledged her with a curt nod. She hadn’t expected even that much, so she’d been stunned when, as the two teams had kicked-off to warm up, he’d sidled over, grabbed her arm, and growled, “You have your wand?” Holding her gaze with an intensity that brought to mind his last battle with Voldemort, he’d waited until she’d recovered from her shock and pulled the end of the slender piece of wood from her boot to show him. With a satisfied nod, he’d flown away without another word.

Understanding hit like a Lumos Maxima. That’s what had been bothering her! Harry hadn’t reacted at all to George’s announcement about everyone keeping their wands. She’d thought he was just being his usual distant self, but now she realized that he’d known it was coming. And it was important enough that he’d broken his vow of silence to be sure she had hers.

Why? Harry and George had been at odds for months. Why would they join forces now? What were they playing at?

Ginny changed directions and watched as Harry took a couple of seconds to realize it and follow. She supposed the uncharacteristic delay could be attributed to his looking for the Snitch, but she didn’t think so. And there was only one way to find out.

Almost before she’d completed the thought, her broom—Harry’s broom… Merlin, she was going to hate giving it back—went into a steep dive, kicking into high speed as she flattened herself against it. After a few seconds, Harry followed, quickly closing the gap between them. They both pulled up within inches of the pitch, eliciting a gasp of terror from the crowd, and soared upward. Ginny led him on a merry chase. He followed like a shadow at high noon, dodging players and Bludgers and executing a series of death-defying loops and spins and plunges before he finally sat up and reined his broom to a halt. She circled back and floated close enough that they could talk without shouting, but not close enough to drive him away.

“What was that about?” she asked. “You never follow a feint.”

He shrugged as his eyes scanned the horizon. “Just doin’ the flashy thing as George ordered.”

She snorted. “And since when do you follow George’s orders?”

He shrugged again and turned to leave.

“What’s going on, Harry?” she blurted, daring to move more than a bit closer when he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. Even though no one could possibly hear them this high above the crowd, she lowered her voice. “There’s something you and George aren’t telling us, and I want to know what it is.”

She could almost see the cogs working in his brain as his gaze bored into her. After several long moments, he looked away, staring at the horizon again as if it held the answers to all the world’s problems. “I hope it’s nothing. Just… just stay alert.” Without another glance, he zoomed off to the other end of the pitch.

Ginny watched him go, then twisted around to look in the direction he’d been staring. What he was hoping wouldn’t happen? Surely, if he was expecting something horrific, they would’ve canceled the match… wouldn’t they? She snorted to herself. George would’ve had a conniption fit at the mere suggestion. But even so, Harry would never allow so many people to walk blindly into danger… would he? Maybe. She didn’t really know him anymore. He’d changed a lot in the past few years. And he’d always been a bit paranoid, expecting evil around every corner—not that he hadn’t been right most of the time—but maybe he’d got worse and hadn’t been able to convince everyone else that the threat was real.

Ginny’s eyes tracked him as he guided his broom upward and began a slow circuit of the pitch. To the uninformed, he appeared to be searching for the Snitch. But from this angle, she could tell that he was watching the sky beyond the stadium. Real or not, he was worried about something.

A roar went up from the crowd, drawing Ginny’s attention back to the match. According to the announcer’s chuckling commentary, Ludo Bagman had just scored for the Harpies by knocking the Quaffle through the goal with a Bludger that ricocheted into his own Keeper. Ginny rolled her eyes and joined her teammates for a mini-celebration in the air while the mediwizards treated the bloody lump on the side of Wood’s head.

“GIN-NEEEEEEE!”

She turned to find the kids from the children’s home hanging out the window of a box, waving madly and screaming her name in unison to get her attention. As soon as she waved and started toward them, they put their beanies back on and jumped up and down in their excitement. With a wide grin, she flew down the length of the box to slap each of their hands. Behind them, Madam Mason looked harried as she snatched at a couple of the boys who were teetering precariously over the ledge.

“Get back in before you fall,” Ginny warned them with a smile. “I’ll come and visit you after the match.”

As she swerved to return to the action, she caught sight of Hermione at the corner of the window frowning into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the antics of the children. With a start, Ginny realized that this was Harry’s box. It and the Minister’s were the only two at the top of the stadium… with unfettered views of the horizon.

Ginny moved back into position with a series of graceful swoops for the children’s benefit, but her mind was occupied elsewhere. Hermione’s presence in the box was disturbing enough—she was supposed to be down helping George because Fleur was fairly useless these days and had stayed home—but the expression on her face made Ginny’s stomach clench. Harry’s paranoia was relatively easy to dismiss, but Hermione didn’t get that look without good reason.

The next half-hour was agonizing. The match was surprisingly even, in spite of Bagman playing more for the Harpies than his own team. But Ginny hardly gave the Snitch a thought as she watched the horizon nearly as much as she watched Harry. When he suddenly flattened against his broom and took off directly toward her, Ginny didn’t realize that he’d seen the Snitch until she caught his words as he zoomed past, “Sod George. I’m ending this.”

She was on his tail in an instant, battling for position and grateful once more for the pinpoint maneuvering and instinctive response of the broom she was riding. Of course, Harry’s newer model meant she still had to work hard to keep up, but she’d beaten him before on a lesser broom and she could do it again.

He stretched out, the very ends of his fingers brushing against the golden sphere. Ginny slammed into his side, jostling him away from it, then veered after it when it suddenly changed directions. He stayed right with her, bumping and elbowing her hip. She cast a challenging grin over at him, but he was entirely focused on the Snitch. Ginny urged her broom to speed up. He inched his way even with her. She was so close she could feel the breeze from the fluttering wings on her fingertips. Slipping her feet from her footrests, she wound her calves around the broom so she could scoot forward. Just as she made a lunge for it, the Snitch darted straight downward.

And was blasted to dust by a purple streak of light.

Before she could grasp what had happened, Harry had already pushed her out of the way of the next blast. She looked toward the pitch to find far too many people on brooms and the air filled with a rainbow of spellfire—including a terrifying amount of green.

“Ginny! Go and help Hermione protect the children!” Harry ordered before pointing his wand at his head. His next words were muffled by the bubble blocking their way, but she understood when he impatiently pointed his wand to conjure one over her head as well. “Go!” he shouted loud enough for her to hear, then turned and plunged into the action below.

Stunned, Ginny could only stare stupidly at the chaos—spectators screaming and running in all directions, Aurors dueling wizards in dark cloaks, a strange orange mist wafting on the breeze, the announcer shouting for everyone to cast Bubble Head Charms for themselves and those who couldn’t.

This was what Harry had hoped wouldn’t happen. But how could so many wizards on brooms get in without being seen?

A flash of red whizzing past her shoulder brought her back to her senses. She threw a look at the children’s box and kicked her broom into motion. Two invaders were trying to blast through the wards Hermione had evidently raised. The children were screaming and clawing in panic at each other and the adults, interfering with Hermione’s efforts to defend against the attack. Once within range, Ginny sent one of the attackers plummeting before he knew she was there. The other whirled, firing a barrage of blazing red at her, but she swerved and rolled, dodging nimbly while sending her own barrage in return.

“Ginny!” Hermione’s voice rang out over the melee.

Understanding immediately, Ginny dived and looped around the wizard, dancing just out of reach until she could draw him into Hermione’s range, then narrowly dodged the tumbling body as she flew straight toward the open window. At the last possible second, Hermione opened the wards, then closed them again as soon as Ginny was safely inside.

The children clambered about her, but Ginny held up her hands as she dispelled her bubble. “No! I need all of you to sit on the floor around the walls. Keep your Bubble Beanies on, put your heads down, and stay very quiet. This is very, very important.”

They moved immediately into position, huddled together along the back wall, their terrified sobs echoing hollowly from their protective bubbles. Madam Mason sat with them, holding the youngest ones on her lap.

Ginny gave them a smile. “Excellent! I’ll tell you when you can get up.” With one last approving nod, she turned toward Hermione, who was waving her wand madly about, casting more spells.

“Thanks,” Hermione said after completing the final incantation. “I couldn’t get the cloaking charm done before they were on us. They shouldn’t be able to see the box, now.” She lowered her voice so only Ginny could hear. “Harry was afraid they’d come after the children.”

“How did this happen?” Ginny whispered fiercely, her eyes on the battle outside. “If he knew they were coming, why wasn’t the match canceled?”

“We weren’t positive about it,” Hermione said. “We had a tip that something big was going to happen soon, but it wasn’t specific about when, and we got the word too late to stop the crowd from coming.” Her voice took on a scathing edge. “Not to mention that George was freaking out about losing money and Robards was worried about how the Auror Division would look in the press. Biggest load of bollocks I’ve ever heard. They really ought to know by now that Harry’s instincts are always spot on.”

Ginny spared Hermione a fleeting glance at her rare use of profanity, but turned quickly back to the scene over the pitch, searching desperately for Harry. She found him near the left goal posts, shouting orders—no doubt about who was in command—as he dueled his way into the middle of the fray.

“But how did so many of them get in without being seen?” Ginny whispered, then gasped as a streak of purple barely missed Harry.

“Mid-air Portkey,” Hermione murmured. “The stadium is warded against Portkeys that put people on the grounds, but not against letting them into the airspace. I’m not sure anyone’s ever heard of it being done before, so the right wards probably don’t even exist.”

“And the Bubble Heads?”

“See the orange mist?” Hermione pointed toward the mostly empty stands. “They threw vials of potion into the crowd. It was supposed to act like the Imperius Curse. That’s why George gave all the kids the Bubble Head Beanies he was going to launch next month. Looks like some of the fans got caught by it, though. They’re fighting against the Aurors.”

Ginny paced along the window, helpless frustration and fury taking over as her adrenaline rush waned. Harry had sent her here to keep her out of the fighting. Did he think she couldn’t hold her own in battle? Was this the latest version of keeping her safe in the Room of Requirement? She ground her teeth and pounded a fist on the window ledge.

“We should be out there,” Ginny growled out loud, forgetting the audience behind them. “Why are we holed up here, when we should be out there fighting?”

Hermione cast a meaningful look toward the floor behind them and put a finger to her lips. “Because Harry would be devastated if anything happened to the children and our being here to protect them leaves the Aurors free to do what they’ve been trained to do,” she whispered.

Ginny opened her mouth to argue, but stopped when her worst demons burst free, paralyzing her with terror like she hadn’t known since the war. Three of the attackers had ganged up on Harry. He fought fearlessly, parrying and returning their curses with apparent ease, but Ginny flinched as if struck by every blast. One of Harry’s curses hit home, but another attacker quickly filled the gap.

Ginny’s throat filled with panic and bile. Harry had become the main target.

Two more dark shapes tried to close the circle around him. Harry shot skyward to escape the trap. Instead of following, the dark-cloaked wizards closed the space beneath him. At least a dozen more joined their ranks, forming a barrier that the Aurors who were trying to help Harry couldn’t penetrate.

“They’re cutting him off!” Ginny made a grab for her broom. “Hermione, I have to go.”

“Ginny, no!” Hermione grasped her arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “You’ll only distract him.”

“But—”

“Dolohov!” Hermione barely breathed the word.

Ginny froze. Ice coated her lungs as she watched one of the attackers throw back his hood and level out across from Harry.

The air between them ignited. Red. Purple. Green. A blinding kaleidoscope of spellfire.

Ginny wanted to scream, but her lungs refused to compress.

Harry danced and dodged through the air, conjuring shields and firing curses with inhuman speed and accuracy. Dolohov matched him move for move, the two of them circling and whirling around each other as if caught in a whirlwind.

Ginny’s heart nearly stopped. She couldn’t just stand here and watch him die like she’d done before. Almost without prompting, the broom jumped into her hand, and she stepped onto the chair behind her.

_BLAAAMMM!!_

The walls of the box shook violently. Several Dark wizards had broken from the pack and were blasting at the wards. The children’s screams ripped through the air.

Ginny dropped her broom and returned fire. “I thought they couldn’t see us!” she yelled.

“I don’t think they can, but they know approximately where we are,” Hermione shouted, her own wand flashing furiously.

Another group was attacking the Minister’s box. Aurors had joined the fray on both sides of the pitch. Through the confusion, Ginny tried desperately to keep an eye on Harry, but he was lost among the swarm of wizards and blazing spellfire. She had no time to tend to the paralyzing fear fighting for control in her brain. Protecting the children—for Harry—was all she could handle.

_Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!_

An evil, Sonorus-enhanced laugh rang out over the pandemonium, sending shivers down Ginny’s spine. In an instant, the attackers were gone.

The sudden cease-fire left the stadium with an eerie stillness. The breeze wafted away the remnants of the orange mist. All movement had stopped… but for one body tumbling over and over, building speed as it plunged toward the ground. A familiar body. With black hair.

A blood-curdling scream broke the silence. Some distant part of Ginny’s brain recognized it as her own.

As if the sound had ended an Immobulus spell, a half-dozen Aurors jabbed their wands upward, slowing Harry’s momentum and lowering him gently into the grass. The mediwizards and nearby Aurors surrounded him instantly, blocking him from view. Ron swooped from the sky with Harry’s broom in hand and dropped to the ground at a run.

Barely aware of Hermione’s nails digging into her hand, Ginny watched the scene in frozen horror. A tiny voice in the back of her head urged her to go down to the pitch to be sure he was alive, but her limbs just wouldn’t respond. What if he wasn’t okay? What if he was… Black spots blossomed before her eyes as her lungs screamed for oxygen.

After what seemed like hours, the huddled group on the pitch stood. Ginny gasped for air when the familiar head of black hair appeared in the middle of them. Harry staggered into view, obviously shaking off their pleas for more treatment and already taking charge again, shouting orders to various Aurors who jumped to attention and headed off in different directions.

Trembling with aftershocks, Ginny grabbed onto the window ledge to keep from collapsing onto the floor.

An ethereal lynx materialized in front of Harry—Shacklebolt’s patronus. He listened to the brief message, took his broom from Ron, and cast a glance up toward the children’s box. Ginny willed him to see her, to come to her. Her heart clenched in despair when he mounted the broom and took off toward the Minister’s box. His priorities were clear.

Ron hopped on his own broom and floated up to the window. After frantically taking down the wards, Hermione nearly fell from the box in her haste to throw her arms around his neck. He levered himself through the window and hugged her tightly, then wrapped one long arm around Ginny, too. She buried her head in his shoulder and worked to control the tremors cascading through her body.

“I’m fine,” Ron murmured to them both. “Harry’s a bit battered, but that’s not unusual for him, yeah? Dolohov nearly took his leg off.” Ginny’s lungs seized again until Ron continued in a hurry. “He’s fine. He’s fine. Mediwizards fixed him right up. They wanted him to go to St. Mungo’s, but you know Harry… Everyone okay in here?”

The children seemed to take that as the cue to let their panic finally have free rein, jumping from their seats to throw themselves at the nearest adult. Ginny forced aside her own distress to help calm them, quickly finding her arms full of Sally and Henry and their big sister Julia, who had been allowed to come from Hogwarts for the weekend.

Within minutes, Mum, Angelina, and Audrey showed up to help comfort the children and transport them back to the home. Torn between going with them and staying to check on her teammates and Harry, Ginny finally accepted Madam Mason’s assurances that they could handle everything.

By the time they had gone, the stadium was nearly empty. Ginny sagged against the window frame, taking in the devastation below. The stands were strewn with belongings left behind by the fleeing spectators. The pitch scattered with debris and cratered by the torrent of curses that had missed their human marks. All was quiet now, but the scene still reeked of terror. A few Aurors were poking around, investigating the crime scene. Harry wasn’t among them.

“Ginny, are you okay?” Hermione was watching her as if she were about to crumble into a million pieces. “Maybe you should spend the night at our place or at the Burrow.”  

Never mind that Hermione was right, Ginny wasn’t about to admit it. She straightened her spine and plastered on a smile she was sure looked as fake as it felt. “I’m fine. You go on. I need to go and check on the team, make sure…” She had to stop and swallow as her throat closed in dread.

“I dunno, Gin,” Ron, who never noticed anything unrelated to food, was eyeing her skeptically. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should—”

“I’m fine,” Ginny said through gritted teeth. “Just go. I’m sure you’re needed somewhere.” She glared them down until they shared a look.

Hermione heaved a heavy sigh, obviously unconvinced. “Well, call if you need us. Even if it’s late.”

Relieved, Ginny murmured her thanks as they hugged her and headed off to the Ministry.

For several long moments, Ginny stared at the spot where they’d been standing. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill seeping into her veins as memories of other battles flooded her mind. Maybe she should’ve— _no!_ She’d spent two years working to contain those demons. She was stronger now. She refused to let them take control again. Jerking her shoulders back and jutting out her chin in defiance, she Summoned her broom and flew off to the changing room.

Not really expecting anyone to still be around, Ginny pushed open the door to find Kelby and Val lounging on the bench against the wall with their feet propped on their rucksacks.

“’Bout time,” Val drawled. “Thought you’d decided to go home without checking in.”

“Sorry.” Plopping onto the bench next to Kelby, Ginny let her head fall back against the wall with a heavy sigh and closed her eyes. “So. Was anyone…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

“Everyone’s fine.” Kelby gave Ginny’s knee a consoling pat. “A few bumps and scrapes, but nothing more than they’d get in a regular match.”

“You shoulda seen Gwen, though.” Ginny could hear the grin in Val’s voice. “She took out two of those bastards with one Bludger and another with just her bat.”

Ginny wanted to smile, but her face wouldn’t cooperate. She forced her eyes open to stop the replay of Harry’s plummet from the sky behind her lids. Sleep was going to be hard to come by tonight. Maybe she should just get back on her broom now to chase the demons from her brain.

As if she’d read Ginny’s mind, Val sat up and turned to face them. “I say we go and flush all the bad memories away. Would you ladies care to join me at the Glowing Goblet?”

That sounded like a much better idea. “I’m in,” Ginny said. “Let me get a quick shower first.”

***

Harry stared out of the window, gritting his teeth and flexing his fists to try and get his rage under control. He’d had his say and would only hurt his case by shouting at Robards—again—in front of the Minister. Shacklebolt’s smooth voice was barely audible, but Harry could sense the undercurrent of displeasure. Robards wasn’t even trying to hide his own irritation.

Tuning them out before his anger could flare again, Harry shifted his attention to the bustling crowds on the pitch below. Aurors and Healers scurried about like ants, tending the injured and securing the captive Death Eaters. Most of the spectators were gone, but a fair number had stayed to assist with the clean-up or to transport those who were too hurt or distraught to get themselves home.

Letting Dolohov get away again had left a bitter burn in Harry’s gut. The battle had been going well—they’d taken out nearly half of Dolohov’s men. If the bastard hadn’t got in that one lucky curse and snatched them all away, Harry was certain he could’ve ended it once and for all.

His throat clenched with emotion as he watched two Healers levitate a sheet-draped form out of the stadium, followed by a sobbing woman with two young children clutched at her sides. The casualties had been few, considering what could’ve happened had they not anticipated the attack. But each one was a dagger in Harry’s heart.

His eyes lifted of their own accord to the box across the pitch. A jolt of gratitude shot through him for the activity he could make out among the shadows. He’d known Dolohov would go after the children. Sending Ginny directly into the line of fire to help protect them had been one of the hardest decisions Harry had ever made, but at the time, he’d had no other choice and he’d known she could do the job. Even so, he’d been relieved when Ron’s terrier Patronus had brought word that everyone was safe, although more than a bit traumatized. Hermione was going to contact St. Mungo’s about sending a Mind Healer to meet the children back at the home to help deal with the worst of it and provide Dreamless Sleep for those who needed it.

Ron had sent no specific word of Ginny, but Harry assumed that meant she was okay. He’d wanted to go and check on her and the others, but he was in charge here. He couldn’t afford the distraction. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later he could stop by her flat…

“Harry!” From the sound of it, that wasn’t the first time the Minister had tried to get his attention.

As he turned, Harry winced a bit at the pain that shot through the partially healed wound on his thigh. Shacklebolt and Robards were looking at him expectantly. “Sorry, sir. Can you repeat the question?”

“I asked if you could get in touch with M… your informant,” Robards growled, aggravated by the magical restraint on saying Malfoy’s name.

Harry pressed his lips together for a moment to dispel the scathing tone he wanted to use. He managed to sound almost neutral when he went ahead with the words. “Why? I thought you didn’t trust him.”

The old troll turned beet red as he scowled at the floor and shuffled his feet.

“Gawain?” The Minister’s voice was a mixture of warning and persuasion.

Robards squared his shoulders, raised his head, and stared at a point outside the window over Harry’s shoulder. “I was wrong.” The words sounded choked, but sincere. “You’ll have my full support with the investigation from now on.”

Harry had no doubt about the reason behind Robards’s apology. The Minister might speak only in dulcet tones, but his words could cut like a knife when he so chose.

Harry released the restraints on his bitterness and anger. “Tell that to the families who lost loved ones today. Five people died.”

Brow furrowed, Robards lowered his eyes, but said nothing.

“But it could’ve been much worse,” Shacklebolt said. “You did a good job of containing the threat, Harry. What’s your next step? Can you contact your informant?”

Harry sighed and closed his eyes briefly as he dragged a hand through his hair. “I usually have to wait for him to contact me. It’s too dangerous for him, otherwise. I’ll give it a go, but I’ll have to wait a day or two. Right now, though, I want to see if any of the Portkeys collected from the captured Death Eaters can be activated to take a small reconnaissance team to wherever Dolohov went.”

“Take Firth and Delan—”

“I’ll choose my own team, thanks.” Harry cut Robards off, not hesitating to convey his contempt. “Summers, Weasley, Biggerstaff, and Johnson, I think.”

“Weasley’s still a trainee!”

Harry leveled a glare at Robards. “He’s been approved to work with me as time allows and he has no classes scheduled until Monday.”

Robards’s face looked like it might ignite, but with a raised eyebrow, Shacklebolt aborted the explosion. “What else do you need, Harry?”

Harry gave the Minister a grateful look. “If the Portkeys don’t work, I’ll need someone from Magical Transportation or maybe the Department of Mysteries to try to determine where they were set to go. And permission to use Veritaserum during the interrogations.” After Shacklebolt nodded his approval, Harry gave a humorless laugh. “Other than that, I just need a lot of luck.”

Shacklebolt gave a wry grin. “That’s the one thing you never seem to be without.”

“Not so much where Dolohov’s concerned,” Harry said and grabbed his broom as he moved toward the door. “I’ll let you know when I have something more to report.”

Three hours later, Harry was cursing his bad luck. He and Summers had interrogated several of the dozen Death Eaters in custody, but, even with Veritaserum, had repeatedly got the same unhelpful story. Dolohov had given each of his men an amulet that served as a Portkey to get them into the stadium and should have got them out. The devices were activated through Dolohov’s, but became disabled once they were removed from the necks of the wizards they were assigned to—which accounted for the disappearance of several prisoners in custody whose amulets hadn’t been collected. And of course, true to what Malfoy had told Harry at their last meeting, none of the captives knew where the Portkeys were set to take them. Dolohov had thought of everything.

Now, standing back in the middle of the Harpies’ pitch, Harry cursed again, spewing a string of profanities that would have Molly Weasley Scourgifying his mouth. The stadium was deserted and, even in the deepening twilight, Harry could see that few traces of the battle remained. Not that he thought the crime scene investigators had missed something—they were trained in the art far better than he was. But damnit, he needed to find _something_ that would lead him to Dolohov!

With a frustrated slash of his wand, Harry sent a shower of grass and dirt flying ten feet into the air, leaving a crater big enough to bury a full-grown Acromantula.

“Whoa, mate! The grounds crew won’t thank you for that. They just got the pitch put back together.”

Harry whirled, wand outstretched.

Hands held up in surrender, Summers emerged from the growing gloom. “I’m on your side, remember?”

Harry lowered his wand and raised an eyebrow. “Not when you sneak up on me like that.”

With a smirk, Summers flicked his wand to replace the soil and sod. “There, all better.”

Harry snorted.

“So, whatcha doin’ out here in the dark?”

Jamming a hand into his hair, Harry watched as the last bit of daylight was sucked into the black void along with any hope of finding more clues tonight. “I don’t know. I just… I need…” His voice filled with the despair that suddenly welled in his chest. “I can’t believe I let him get away again! He was right there. All I had to do was… and I just couldn’t get to him.”

“Potter.” Summers grabbed Harry’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. “You weren’t alone. We were all doing our best, but he had the advantage. We were outnumbered and there were too many people to protect. This isn’t your fault!”

“But if we’d canceled the match… set a trap. Damn Robards!” With a growl, Harry slashed another crater into the grass. “Why won’t he listen?”

“Because you’re a threat.”

Harry spun around, gaping at where he could barely see Summers’s outline against the faint glow of light from the distant changing rooms. “What? That’s rubbish!”

A flash of white signaled Summers’s grin. “No it’s not. He likes to be in control and be the only one Shacklebolt relies on. You are beyond control, and you have the Minister’s ear. And you’re Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, to boot. How much more of a threat could you be? He’s worried that you’ve got your sights set on his job.”

“Now that’s _complete_ rubbish,” Harry insisted, but with less vehemence. Summers might be onto something. It made a lot more sense than Hermione’s theory. “I don’t want his job. As soon as we’ve got Dolohov, I’m going back into the field, as far away from England as I can get. I might even look into joining the Canadian or U.S. Aurors.”

Surprised by his own admission—he couldn’t remember consciously having the thought before—Harry wished he could see well enough to gauge Summers’s reaction. It must’ve been a complete shock because the silence was broken only by the snap of the flags in the breeze overhead.

Summers finally cleared his throat and spoke. “Yeah, well, we don’t have to make that decision right now, do we? And there’s nothing more we can do tonight. Let’s go get a pint or two. Clear our heads so we can start fresh tomorrow.”

The last place Harry wanted to be was a crowded pub where the talk would be all about the attack. But in spite of his casual tone, something in Summers’s voice seemed to be asking for reassurance. Yeah, the more Harry thought about it, a pint with a friend sounded much better than an empty, cold, dark house.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Harry said and was startled when he thought he heard Summers release a breath of relief. “A pint sounds good. Where do you want to go?”

“Just leave the details to me,” Summers said, his usual cocky attitude returning.

And before Harry could object, the tube of Side-Along Apparition squeezed around him. 


	49. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack is over... or is it?

When Harry's feet hit the ground in the darkened alley surrounded by overflowing bins, it took him a moment to realize they were around the corner from the Glowing Goblet. He grimaced. He should’ve known Summers would bring them here. But this wasn’t a typical post-match night. Maybe she wouldn’t be here.

Right. His luck had never been that good, especially where Ginny Weasley was concerned.

Harry was almost to the door before he realized he was still wearing his Quidditch uniform. The close-fitting cerulean trousers and tunic with its short gold-trimmed cape would make him look like a Muggle comic-book character among the casually dressed crowd. Just what he needed, more attention than usual. With a quick flick of his wand, he muted the brilliant blue to dark grey and Transfigured the cape into a long cloak, then muttered his strongest Confundus Shield, just in case.

The pub was busy, but not packed like it had been the last time Harry was here. And the mood was decidedly less celebratory. Summers motioned to indicate he was going to the bar to get drinks. Harry veered to the left, toward the darkest corner of the room, determinedly not looking toward a certain table along the back wall. He didn’t want to know if she was here.

Harry slouched in his chair and forced his eyes to the collage of initials and foul words carved into the tabletop as he tuned-in to the nearby chatter.

“…five people died.”

“I heard it was ten.”

“I heard fifty!”

“…must’ve been a hundred of them…”

“…barely got out with my life…”

“…Ministry had to have known…”

“Potter!”

Harry looked up and flicked his finger to drop the shield. Summers plunked a pint onto the table, sloshing ale over the sides.

“Woulda got something stronger, but I know you won’t drink it anyway,” Summers said as he plopped into his chair.

Before Harry had time to re-establish the ward, a blonde blur tumbled into Summers’s lap and attached her lips to his with so much force Harry could almost feel the suction pulling him in as well. He took a gulp of his drink and tried to ignore the girl’s moan of pleasure as Summers’s hand moved smoothly up her thigh and under the hem of her too-short skirt.

Summers pulled away and grinned. “Hello, beautiful. Do I know you?”

Harry snorted. The git really needed to work on his lines. Besides, this was the same bird that he’d been crawling all over the last time they were here. Harry paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. Since when did Summers see a girl more than once? And wasn’t she…

Without permission, Harry’s gaze darted toward the table he’d been avoiding. Ginny’s unflinching stare met him with the force of a boot to the nose. She looked… angry was the only word to describe it. What had he done to infuriate her this time? Not that it mattered. Instead of frightening him, her fury only made him want to channel all of that fiery passion into a more pleasurable purpose.

But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—go down that road again. Today was proof that it would mean disaster. She was probably angry that he hadn’t told her about the attack ahead of time, but telling her wouldn’t have changed the outcome and would have only worried her needlessly if it hadn’t happened. Given the chance to do things over, he wouldn’t do anything different… except maybe stun George and Robards and cancel the match altogether.

Tearing his eyes away, Harry downed another swallow of his drink. Maybe tonight was the night he’d be able to wash all of his troubles away for a change. Or maybe not. The giggle to his right blasted like sand against his eardrum. He set his pint down with a thud.

“I’m leaving.” Not really expecting an answer, Harry pushed his chair back, but Summers’s hand shot out and gripped his arm.

“No, Potter. Stay.” Summers turned back to the blonde in his lap. “Listen, sweets. Why don’t I catch you up later, yeah?”

The blonde—Vickie or Velma… no, Val was her name—poked her lip out in a pout that was probably meant to be alluring. Harry thought she looked silly. Summers obviously disagreed; he sucked on the lip for a moment then pulled back to give her a seductive grin as he stroked her thigh beneath her skirt. Harry jerked his eyes away and took another pull on his drink.

“Come on, now, love,” Summers murmured. “Don’t be like that. You know I can’t resist. I just need to take care of a little business here, first. I’ll be along in a bit, I promise.”

Val kissed him a couple more times then eased reluctantly out of his lap. “Don’t be long. I might not be able to wait. Might just find myself another fit bloke to take home with me.”

Summers laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” As she backed away—obviously well past tipsy—she stumbled into a couple of laughing men who took the opportunity to get in a grope or two as they helped steady her. She didn’t seem to mind, sending Summers an I-told-you-so look. He grinned and blew her a kiss before she staggered off.

“Don’t send her away on my account,” Harry said, still poised to leave. “She might find herself another bloke and then where would you be?”

Summers waved a careless hand, his eyes following her progress across the room. “She’ll wait. She always does.” His eyes took on a faraway look for a moment before he turned to look at Harry. “And besides, who said I did it for you? Maybe I just need a chance to wind down before I get wound up again.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Right. Pull the other one.”

Summers grinned then went wide-eyed with exaggerated disbelief as he stared at the table. “Whoa ho! What’s this? Harry Potter actually drank almost a whole pint? Please tell me you didn’t waste my good money and vanish it that quickly.”

Just as surprised as Summers, Harry scowled at his nearly-empty glass.  

“You _did_ drink it.” Summers’s tone turned serious. “I had a feeling you were—”

With a look, Harry dared him to finish that sentence. Summers pressed his lips together and threw a glance across the room.

Harry couldn’t help but look, too. Ginny was smiling at something her other friend was saying, but the expression looked brittle, as if she were working hard to keep it in place.

Summers turned back to Harry. “You’re such a wanker, Potter. Go and talk to her. At least make sure she’s okay.”

“Ron checked on her. She’s fine,” Harry ground out, then drained his glass and slammed it back on the table.

“Yeah, but maybe she wants _you_ to check on her.” Summers glanced back at the table across the room. “Maybe—oh, shite! That stupid fuck’s back.”

Harry jerked his eyes back toward Ginny. An unfamiliar wizard was leaning over the table; she had her back pressed against the wall to try to put more space between them. Two other… goons was the only word to describe them, hovered behind him. The three of them conjured a vivid memory of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

“Who is he?” Harry asked, noting that Ginny’s fury seemed to have kicked up several notches, even though she was making an effort to keep a tight rein on it.

“Crispus Montague,” Summers said without taking his eyes from the scene. “Old pureblood money. No criminal record—nothing that could stick, anyway. Several sexual assault complaints, but they never even got as far as an arrest, much less a trial. Rumor has it that he filled a few Ministry pockets to make it all go away. Val says he’s been more or less stalking your girl for nearly a year. They didn’t pay him much mind at first, but lately he’s been getting more aggressive and Val’s worried that Ginny isn’t taking him seriously enough. Kelby told the Harpies’ security about him, so they know not to let him get close, but he usually turns up here after the matches. I’ve warned him off a couple of times, but he doesn’t listen very well.”

Harry wondered briefly at Summers’s familiarity with the three witches, but let the “your girl” reference pass in favor of addressing the greater problem. “Maybe it’s time we improved his hearing.” He braced himself to stand up.

Summers put out a hand to stop him. “Just so you know, the first time I warned him off, I thought she was going to hex me into oblivion. Said she could take care of herself.”

Harry smirked. Pride welled in his chest as he looked back across the room. “Yeah, she can.”

She hopped down from her chair, pushed roughly past Montague, and stalked to the bar. Montague followed while his goons blocked her friends from leaving the table.

Harry knew she could take care of herself—and that she wouldn’t thank him for interfering—but that smarmy git needed to know that she had powerful friends who were willing to protect her, whether she wanted them to or not.

Harry stood. “Think I’ll get us another round, yeah?”

“Yeah. Let me know if you need backup.” Summers still had his eyes on the goons by the table, but they were just standing guard. Harry was sure Summers already had his wand in hand under the table, ready to take action if needed.

As he made his way across the crowded room, Harry saw Montague wrap an arm around Ginny’s waist while she waited for her order. She shoved at him and finally stomped his foot to make him let her go. By the time Harry got within hearing distance, she had pulled her wand.

“I told you to leave me alone,” she spat. “So help me, I’ll—”

“Now, now, my little Fireball.” Montague gave her a wicked grin. “You know how I love when you challenge me. Keep that up and I won’t be able to control myself.”

Harry nearly froze. The words were too close to his own thoughts just minutes before. Except that he would never force himself on her. Not like this evil git.

Tossing his head to move his fringe away from his scar, Harry stepped up behind Ginny and spoke in his most authoritative Auror voice. “I believe the lady asked you to leave.” Holding Montague’s stare over Ginny’s head, Harry made an obvious movement to click his wand into his hand so the idiot couldn’t miss it.

Montague smirked, but before he could respond, Ginny whirled to face Harry.

“Bugger off, Potter. In case you missed it this afternoon, I’m perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.”

Harry had expected the rejection, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. He kept his face impassive and never broke eye contact with Montague, whose smirk had turned into a cheeky grin.

“Looks like your services aren’t needed here, _Auror_ Potter.” Montague made the title sound like a slur.

Ginny turned back toward him. “And neither are yours!” She levitated the three drinks the barman had set in front of her and marched back to the table, glaring the goons out of her way.

Harry stepped close enough to count the hairs sticking out of Montague's not-so-perfect-as-he-thought nose. “Leave her alone.”

Montague stood his ground and adopted a bored expression. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I believe the Chaser _enjoys_ being chased.”

The burn in Harry’s gut threatened to erupt as flame through his nose. If the man wanted a fireball, he just might get one. The only thing keeping Harry from hexing the prick senseless was the fact that, as an Auror, he had a responsibility to uphold the law—especially in front of so many witnesses.

“What part of ‘leave me alone’ don’t you understand? How many times does she have to say ‘no’ before you’ll believe her?”

Montague shrugged, his tone nonchalant. “I don’t know. Maybe if she were to make, say, an _official_ complaint.”

“She sounded pretty _official_ to me,” Harry growled.

“No more official than she sounded telling _you_ to bugger off.”

Harry’s fingers flexed around his wand. “That’s different.”

“Different? Because you’re special? Because you’re the Chosen One?”

“Because I’m _family_.” Two weeks ago Harry would never have made that claim, and even now he had to choke it out.

“Ah, yes. She thinks of you as—what did the _Prophet_ say?—another _brother_ , I believe. But I’d wager you feel about as brotherly as I do. And, just like me, you’re certain she wants you, too. Only, you’re not man enough to go after her.”

Harry struggled to hang onto his composure. He’d be damned if he’d give Montague a clue that his barb had hit home. “There’s nothing stopping me from hauling your arse to the Ministry, Montague. I’m sure I can come up with a charge that you won’t be able to buy your way out of.”

Montague held Harry’s glare for several moments, silently issuing a challenge of his own before taking a step back, spreading his arms wide, and dropping into a deep bow. “I concede this round, Auror Potter.” He stood and cocked his head at his goons. As they headed toward the door, Montague turned back and gave Harry a wicked smile. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

Harry watched him leave and stared at the closed door for several moments.

“What did you say to make him go?” Summers’ voice jerked Harry out of his reverie.

“Threatened to haul him in on trumped-up charges,” Harry said as he turned and leaned on the bar next to Summers. He looked over his shoulder at the door again. “Something’s off. It was too easy.”

“Did he say he’d quit stalking her?”

Harry snorted. “No. Stupid tosser thinks she’s playing hard to get. Said he won’t stop until she files an official complaint with the DMLE.”

“Would she do that?”

Harry cast a look toward Ginny’s table and met brown eyes as hard as flint. She tilted her head defiantly. Harry shifted his gaze back to Summers, who had been watching her, too. “What do _you_ think?”

“I’d say that was a ‘no.’ Stubborn, that one.”

Harry hummed his agreement as he sneaked another look across the pub in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar. Ginny was leaning back in her chair, arms wrapped around herself, staring into space as her friends carried on a conversation across her. Her anger seemed to have subsided, but she looked completely miserable. Harry had to force himself to look away so he didn’t march over and Disapparate with her.

“So, what now?” Summers asked, flagging the barman for another drink.

“Dunno.” Harry nodded at the barman, getting another pint to use as a prop—he definitely wasn’t drinking any more tonight. “Wait, I guess. Make sure he doesn’t come back before she leaves.” He settled against the bar, leaning on one elbow and keeping an eye on the mirror.

“Maybe we should offer to escort them home.” Summers gave him a cheeky grin. “I get Val and Kelby. You get Wild Weasley.”

Harry snorted. “Value your bollocks, do you, but not mine?”

“Got it in one.”

A movement in the mirror had Harry watching Ginny’s table. “She’s leaving.”

Summers boldly turned around and leaned back on his elbows, drink in one hand, as he pretended to peruse the crowd. Harry maintained his casual stance and his surveillance.

“Oh, of _course_ , she wouldn’t take the nice secure Floo,” Summers drawled when Ginny pulled something from her pocket and enlarged it with her wand. “No, she’d rather fly back to London and make herself an easy target.”

“Oh, bloody hell! I left my broom in the office.” Harry muttered under his breath as he watched Ginny make her way to the door. “I don’t like this.” He shoved away from the bar, but stopped when Summers moved to follow. “You don’t have to come. I can handle it.”

“Uh, huh. Whenever you say you don’t like something, all hell usually breaks loose. Think I’ll just come along and get a bit of fresh air, offer some backup, you know… the usual.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but hurried to the door. He’d barely stepped outside when a shriek pierced the night. He rounded the corner at a run.

Montague’s two goons—one with Ginny’s broom—were blocking the entrance to the alley. Without breaking stride, Harry stunned them both and leapt over the bodies, then skidded to a stop at the scene before him.

Montague had Ginny’s back pinned against his chest, her arms trapped at her sides. She fought desperately, squirming and kicking at his shins while he struggled to subdue her and hang onto his wand. Her wand lay on the ground several feet behind them.

Harry watched in helpless terror as Summers’s frantic whisper voiced his fear.

“Shite! Can’t get a shot without hitting her.”

“And he’ll take off with her the minute she’s still,” Harry muttered back.

Ginny landed a particularly vicious kick to Montague’s knee. “I knew you’d like it rough, bitch,” he snarled and pounded his fist into her jaw. Grunting in pain, Ginny used the movement to jerk her arm free and claw at his face, leaving trails of blood down his cheek.

Harry lunged, but Summers held him back. “Don’t distract her. You’ll give him the upper hand.”

Montague hit her again, but she twisted around and sank her teeth into his other hand. With a yelp, he lost the grip on his wand and it clattered to the ground.

Harry saw his chance and fired a stunner at the same time Summers did. Both shots missed, sending garbage flying as Ginny’s feet tangled around Montague’s legs, toppling them to the ground. Montague refused to let go, still clutching her about the waist as he made a grab for his wand. She shifted higher on his chest, arms and legs flying, her boot coming down hard into his groin. He let loose a Banshee wail, finally letting go as he curled into a ball.

In a blink, Ginny scrambled on hands and knees to her wand and disappeared.

Harry stared at the spot where she’d been for a moment, then went to stand over the moaning, writhing lump of shite. That bastard had tried to force himself on Ginny. He’d hit her! The monster in Harry’s chest snarled. No one could get away with hurting his Ginny like that!

Harry’s foot crashed into Montague’s ribs with a satisfying crack that fed the rage boiling in his gut. Jerking Montague by the hair to his knees, Harry drove a fist into his nose, relishing the squelch of skin and blood. He pulled his arm back and aimed for the jaw.

“Potter!”

Harry paused mid-punch, growling his irritation at the interruption. Unperturbed, Summers leaned casually against the wall and held out Ginny’s broom.

“You going to do that all night or are you going to go and check on your girl? She looked like she might need some attention.”

Harry dropped Montague to the ground with a thud. Ginny probably did need some attention—at the very least she’d need her wounds healed… But maybe he wasn’t the best person to do that… Maybe he should call some—

“Here.” Summers shoved the broom into Harry’s hand. “Go. Make sure she’s all right. See if you can get her statement. Ask her to help us put these pricks away for good.”

Harry looked around at the three unconscious men.

“I can handle this,” Summers said, reading his mind. “Just go!”

Before his brain could argue again, Harry spun out of sight.

***

Ginny landed in the middle of her sitting room on her hands and knees. Frantically scrambling to her feet, she slashed her wand to close the Floo and ward it, then added two extra layers of protective charms to the door. Her heart hammered in her throat as she stumbled into the bedroom, sealed the door shut behind her, and curled into a ball between the wall and the far side of the bed.

Panic beat like a second heart in her chest. With a death grip on her wand, she dropped her head into the circle of her arms around her knees and struggled to calm her violent shudders. She needed to be quiet or he’d find her. But she couldn’t hold back her whimpers at the memory of Montague’s hands morphing into Greyback’s. In her mind, she was back in that cold stone cottage, dust motes floating in the strips of light filtering through boarded windows, a heavy shackle tethering her to the wall. She choked on the stench of urine and vomit and blood. Rough, filthy hands closed around her neck. Her lungs burned for air.

_No!_

Ginny jerked her head up and forced herself to look around. She was safe. The danger was gone.

And as quickly as the thought occurred, her earlier anger returned ten-fold. Fury and frustration ripped through her gut, making her shudder with the need to Apparate back to that alley and _Crucio_ that fucking bastard within an inch of his life. What right did he have to make her feel helpless, to think he could control her? What right did any of them have—Montague, Greyback, the Death Eaters at the stadium—to inflict their evil will on others? To endanger innocent people?

Even people who willingly stood up to face them down.

The image of Harry tumbling from the sky flashed across her brain, and the rage she’d nursed at the pub resurfaced. How dare he send her to off to cower with the children while he recklessly threw himself into danger?  She could take care of herself. She could! And then he’d had the nerve to sit there looking so calm and unaffected by everything. The bloody prick! He was just as bad—

Her brain froze as a tingle of magic ghosted over her skin. Someone had cast a revealing spell.

Without warning, her panic returned. Hot spikes shot through her trembling fingers as they tightened around her wand, but the pain did nothing to dam the waves of helplessness that crashed over her.

Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth to quiet her suddenly labored breathing. Willing her heart to stop beating in her ears, she strained to listen. The outer wards fell and the outside door clicked open. How could he have found her? How could he have got past the wards on the shop? The knock on the bedroom door jerked her into battle mode once more. She wasn’t giving up without a fight.

“Ginny?”

That sounded like… no, it couldn’t be… he’d never come here…

“Ginny, it’s Harry. I’m coming in.”

He might sound like Harry, but Ginny wasn’t taking any chances. She carefully shifted to get her feet under her so she could move quickly from her crouch, and peeked over the top of the mattress. Wand at the ready, she held her breath to keep from giving away her position. The door began to ease open.

“Ginny?”

“ _Stupefy!”_

He ducked back out, barely avoiding the blast that left a hole in the wall beside the door.

“Get out!” she called, cursing the telltale quaver in her voice. “Leave me alone!”

“Ginny, it’s me—”

“Why should I believe you?”

He hesitated only a second. “Ask me a question. Something only the two of us would know.”

Ginny’s brain raced, settling on the only thing she could think of that had been just between them. “What… what did you give me in the Room of Requirement… on Halloween of my seventh year?”

The silence stretched ominously. She stood and opened her mouth to cast a blasting curse at the door, but jerked her wand away when she heard a raspy whisper.

“A ri…” He stopped and cleared his throat, then started again with more confidence. “A ring. My mother’s ring. An emerald with diamonds on either side.”

The fight drained out of her. Relief weakened her knees and she sank to the floor, slumping against the bed as the emotions she’d been holding back all afternoon exploded. Some small part of her brain knew she was losing control, but the rest of her was too far gone to care. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she rocked back and forth with a muffled wail, unable to rein in her demons any longer.

In a heartbeat, Harry was kneeling beside her, easing cautiously forward as if approaching a spooked Hippogriff. “Are you okay? He hit you. Did he hurt you anywh—”

Without thinking, Ginny closed the space between them, clutching his robes and burying her face in his chest, not even trying to stop the rush of tears. He tensed for a moment, then with a heavy sigh, sat down and pulled her into his lap. She burrowed into his arms, drinking in his scent, listening to the steady, soothing beat of his heart beneath her ear, and her anger at him became a distant memory.

Oh, gods, she’d nearly lost him again. He could’ve died today. The thought erupted as an anguished moan against his shoulder. “I thought you were dead. You were falling and I thought you were dead.” She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop.

He lowered his cheek to the top of her head and carded his fingers through her hair, murmuring incoherent sounds of reassurance. He was okay. And he was here. And in his arms was the place she felt safest in the entire world. If only she could stay here and never leave.

Too soon, Harry’s hand in her hair grew still as her storm subsided to hitching breaths and hiccoughs.

“Ginny.” The word was hushed, as if he feared startling her. “Ginny, you can’t stay here alone tonight.”

 _Stay with me._ She couldn’t find her voice to say the words aloud, but her heart was shouting them. _Don’t leave me. Stay with me._

But he didn’t hear. “Let me take you to the Burrow.”

She shook her head frantically. “No, please… I can’t… I can’t…”

His arms tightened around her and his fingers resumed their gentling caress. “Okay. Shhh. I know. It’s okay. I reckon your mum would be a bit much right now.”

She relaxed against him, hoping that he would finally realize what she really needed.

“Ron and Hermione’s, then.” It wasn’t a question. He slipped an arm beneath her knees and cradled her against his chest with the other as he awkwardly, but with little struggle, stood.

Ginny snuggled against him, her heart protesting the trip, but she was too wrung out to fight anymore. The air squeezed around them and, in seconds, they were standing in the garden behind Ron and Hermione’s flat. Harry had taken no more than two steps forward when the door burst open and Hermione was at their side.

“Ginny! Oh, Harry, what’s happened?” Hermione took one look at Harry’s face and pressed her lips together, stepping aside to let them pass.

Ron held the door open, his face tight with concern, as Harry strode through the kitchen and gently settled Ginny on the sofa in front of the sitting room fire. She made a soft sound of protest at the loss of his warmth, then grunted in pain as Hermione sat down and ran a careful finger over her suddenly throbbing jaw. The memory of Montague’s punch revived Ginny’s rage, but she squelched it and lifted her chin to allow Hermione access in order to apply a healing charm.

“What happened?” Hermione asked quietly as she took the vial of potion that Ron passed over to her—probably a pain reliever—and handed it to Ginny.

Harry was staring through the night-blackened window, his back rigid and fists flexing at his sides. “She was attacked. At the pub.” His voice was gritty, full of barely-leashed fury as he gave them an abbreviated summary of what had happened. “She can stay here tonight, yeah? I need to go back and secure her flat, then go and make sure that bastard doesn’t get away with this.”

Ginny started to protest that they needn’t talk about her like she was a helpless child, but Ron spoke first.

“I’ll deal with the flat, mate. You go and take care of that prick.”

Rubbing his right fist, Harry gave a grunt of laughter that held no humor. “Already gave him a few things to think about. Now I need to make sure he can’t buy his way out this time.”

From the bruises on Harry’s knuckles, Ginny could just imagine what Montague was thinking about and irritation flashed through her. She should’ve done that. Instead, she’d just barely managed to fight him off and then had run like a scared rabbit. Her anger turned inward, touching off uncontrollable shudders as self-loathing boiled in her stomach. So much for being able to take care of herself. Hermione wrapped an arm around her, but—unlike Harry’s arms—it did nothing to ward off the chill sinking into Ginny’s bones.

“Do what you need to do,” Hermione told Harry. “We’ll be fine.”

For the first time since the pub, Harry’s eyes met Ginny’s. She thought she could drown in their green depths.

“I’m sorry,” he growled. “I should’ve—” He stopped and averted his eyes, jaw muscle flexing.

Ginny knew that look. He was blaming himself. She opened her mouth to rail at him, to tell him what a prick he was for thinking of her as nothing more than a damsel in distress. But before she could say a word, he turned and was gone, taking the last of her strength with him.

When Hermione got up to hold a quiet conversation with Ron across the room, Ginny drew her knees to her chest and dropped her head onto them so they wouldn’t see the tears leaking from her closed eyelids. Unable even to cry properly any longer, she gave herself a mental slap. What had she thought? That Harry had come to her rescue because he was secretly in love with her? She snorted softly to herself. Right, Ginny. And Muggles will work out how to fly to the moon and back. No, she was just the most recent beneficiary of Harry’s saving-people-thing, and she’d do well to remember that before she made a fool of herself again.

“Ginny? Do you want some tea?”

Ginny jumped—she hadn’t heard Hermione sit back down—but she shook her head without raising it. Merlin, all she wanted was to sink into a deep, dark hole and never come up again. Yes, that would do. She tilted her head enough to peek at Hermione over her arm. “Dreamless Sleep?”

Hermione paused for only a second before nodding. A few moments later she was back rubbing soothing strokes across Ginny’s shoulders. “Want to talk?”

Even as Ginny shook her head no, the words tumbled from her mouth, her fury back with a vengeance. “That bastard! That bloody, fucking bastard! His goons grabbed me and took my broom, then he snatched my wand…”

And the feeling of naked panic slammed into her again. “Oh, god, Hermione. I... I was back there, in that cottage, and Greyback, he was choking me and I couldn’t… when he snatched my wand… I just… I couldn’t think… I couldn’t remember any of the… how to get away… how to fight back… all I could do was kick and scratch and… I was so afraid that if he Disapparated that…”  The terror took over. Ginny buried her face in Hermione’s shoulder and shook with dry sobs, her tears already completely drained.

“Shh… shhhh,” Hermione whispered once Ginny began to quiet. “You’re safe, now.”

Ginny huffed an exasperated breath and pushed herself up, the fire burning in her gut again. “Through no fault of my own. I was so… distracted about the attack at the stadium that I wasn’t paying enough attention. I honestly thought that stupid prick was just overblown ego and foul mouth. All that time learning those fancy self-defense moves and I was bollocks when it came time to use them… I’m a total failure.”

Hermione’s look of pity was almost painful. “It’s good, then, that Harry came to the rescue, wasn’t it?”

Ginny thought about that for a moment and sat up, startled at the realization. “No… no, he didn’t. I mean, he was there… towards the end… but, I got away on my own.” She _had_ taken care of herself. It hadn’t been pretty, but she’d done it.

“Then, not a total failure, are you?” Hermione said with a coy smile. “And it’s still good that Harry came to the rescue, isn’t it? You looked pretty cozy in his arms. And he seems ready to kick some major arse on your behalf.”

Ginny leaned back against the sofa cushions and found the frayed edge of the quilt suddenly fascinating. She fingered a loose thread and gave a half-hearted shrug. “He’s just being Harry. You know, everyone’s hero. I just happened to be the one who needed saving this time.”

She held up a hand to ward off Hermione’s argument. “Hermione, please. I really don’t have it in me for this tonight.”

Hermione nodded. “You’re right. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” She pulled Ginny to her feet, then led the way to the guest bedroom.

Ginny stripped down to her knickers and put on one of Ron’s old Cannon’s t-shirts while Hermione turned back the covers. Once Ginny had slipped between the sheets and settled back against the pillow, Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her lips together as if she were preparing to say something distasteful. Ginny held her breath.

“You know you’re going to have to go to the Ministry to give them a statement,” Hermione said.

Narrowing her eyes, Ginny firmed her jaw and nodded. The last thing she wanted was to relive this nightmare for some leering Auror—or even for Harry or Scott—but she’d be damned if she was going to let Montague get away with it.

“It might be easier to go tomorrow, when fewer people will be around. And less chance that the press will get wind of it right away.”

Oh, Merlin, the press! Ginny hadn’t even thought about them. She pressed a hand against her eyes with a low growl.

“And you _do_ know, don’t you…” When the silence held, Ginny opened her eyes to find Hermione giving her an intense stare. “You really should go and talk to Healer Andrews as soon as possible.”

Ginny heaved a sigh from the depths of her soul. She’d needed to do that since Harry had returned. Now, she really couldn’t talk herself out of it again. “I know. I’ll Floo her on Monday.”

Hermione looked relieved that they wouldn’t have to argue the point and held out the vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Ginny took it and considered it for a moment. With a sigh she looked up. “I reckon I need to apologize to Scott… and to Harry. Probably to Val and Kelby, too.”

Hermione looked surprised. “Why?”

“They all tried to get me to take Montague more seriously.” Ginny gave a humorless snort. “The first time Scott stepped in to help, I threatened to hex him. He’s been warning the prick off for weeks. And, tonight, when Harry got all macho at the pub before the attack, I told him to bugger off.”

“Oh, Ginny…”

“I know, I know. I think I’ve finally learnt my lesson about being too cocky. But I _can_ take care of myself. I really don’t need everyone coddling me.”

Hermione smiled. “I know, but I still think it’s not a bad thing to let Harry take care of you sometimes.” She glanced down at her twisted fingers, then back up at Ginny with a soft look in her eyes. “You do realize that’s how he shows people that he cares, don’t you? He’s most fierce when it’s someone he really loves.”

Ginny looked down at her own hands as hope flared in her chest, but she quickly beat it down. Even if what Hermione was implying were true, he didn’t seem inclined to act on those feelings. And Ginny just couldn’t bear to set herself up for disappointment again.

After another silent moment, Hermione patted Ginny’s knee. “Get some rest.” She lowered the lights to cast a soft glow over the room and gave Ginny another gentle smile as she closed the door behind her.

Gulping down the potion, Ginny barely had time to burrow under the blankets before the world faded to black.

***

Harry jolted awake, wand in hand and ready to start flinging curses before he realized that it was Hermione slipping quietly across the office that had roused him from his restless sleep. With a groan, he flopped back onto the sofa that he’d transfigured from the two visitor chairs that usually sat in front of the desk. “That’s a good way to get yourself hexed, you know.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said as she set a covered plate and bottle of Butterbeer on the desk. “I was trying not to wake you. I suppose you were here all night?”

Harry stopped rubbing his eyes to give her a baleful glare.

She smirked. “Yes, well, Mrs. Weasley sent you some lunch. George is bringing Ginny along later to give her statement.”

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Harry ran a hand through his hair. “How is she?”

“As well as can be expected,” Hermione said, settling into Harry’s chair behind the desk. “She had a quiet night, thanks to the Dreamless Sleep Potion she took. Of course, telling the family was an ordeal—she had to threaten Bat Bogey Hexes to keep all of them from coming here with her—and she’s kind of vacillating between anger and despair. But she’s holding up fairly well, considering. Were you able to get things set?”

Harry sat up and scrubbed his face again, trying to push the sleep from his brain. “By the time I got here, Summers had processed Montague and his goons. Of course, Montague had already started shouting about contacting his solicitor.”

Hermione smirked. “And naturally, you got on that right away.”

“As quickly as I could.” The tone of innocence in Harry’s voice made her snort. “It _was_ as quickly as I could,” he said indignantly. “I did it right after I contacted Percy about putting the case on Griselda Marchbanks’s docket.” Harry had to wonder what rock Montague had been hiding under that he didn’t know about Ginny’s brother being the Undersecretary to the Minister who assigned cases to the three-judge panels that ruled on cases not significant enough to go before the full Wizengamot.

“Oh, good show!” Hermione beamed at him. “Her panel is the one that absolutely can’t be bought.”

Grunting a humorless laugh, Harry slipped his glasses on. “Don’t think he hasn’t already tried. Attempted bribery was added to his list of charges, which also killed his chances of being set free on bail. Arrogant bastard!”

Hermione scowled. “His solicitor’s been a busy boy, then. We can also add intimidating the victim to the list. Ginny got a carefully worded letter this morning suggesting that she drop the charges, or else. She’s bringing it when she comes.”

Harry popped up from the couch and started to pace, needing to expend some energy as the desire to go and pummel Montague again rippled under his skin. “That’s probably how he managed to get away with the previous assaults.”

“We should contact those women and get them to testify,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “It’ll strengthen the case against him.”

Harry stopped and turned toward Hermione. “Robards made me hand this one off. Said I was too close to it.”

Hermione cocked her head. “Not surprising, really. Even discounting your connection to the victim, the case really doesn’t warrant such high-level attention. Were you able to help choose who got it?”

Grimacing at her implication about his supposed importance in the department, Harry decided to forego that argument and just nodded. “Esmerelda Wickham and Hugh Phelps.”

“Good choice. They’re brilliant at this sort of investigation. He’s wickedly thorough and she’s got a gentle way with survivors.” Hermione’s mouth curled in a grim smirk. “Montague has absolutely no idea what he’s up against.” 

Suddenly tired again, Harry flopped back onto the sofa. Hermione pushed the plate toward him. “Eat, Harry. You’re going to need your strength. How much sleep did you get?”

Harry shrugged as he lifted the cover from the plate. He hadn’t thought he was hungry until the enticing smells from the Weasley kitchen hit his nose. “Dunno. Couple hours, I guess. Spent most of the night interrogating Dolohov’s minions.”

“Find out anything new?”

Shaking his head, Harry swallowed his huge bite of shepherd’s pie. “No, they all give the same story—they just do what they’re told, when they’re told, and have no idea about operation locations or plans for future attacks. But I’d like you to take a look at the memories of the sessions. You might think of some different questions that we should ask.”

Hermione nodded her agreement. “Any word from your contact?”

“Not yet,” Harry said around another mouthful, wondering at the way Hermione wouldn’t quite meet his eyes when she’d asked the question. He’d wager a significant portion of his Gringott’s vault that she’d worked out who his contact was. But neither of them pursued the topic any further.

For a few moments, the only sound was Harry’s fork hitting his plate between bites while Hermione stared into the fire wearing the look she always got when she was considering a new puzzle. When Harry laid his fork down and drained the last of his Butterbeer, Hermione shook herself from her thoughts and stood.

“Ginny and George should be here soon. Are you coming?” She didn’t wait for an answer before striding through the door.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his jumper and taking a hopeless swipe at taming his hair, Harry didn’t give himself time to think as he silently followed her. Seeing Ginny was probably a horrible idea, but after dreaming half the night—well, the half he’d tried to sleep—that he hadn’t been quick enough and Montague had finished what he’d started, Harry needed to see for himself that she was all right.

In spite of her pale and weary appearance, she stepped from the lift holding herself ramrod straight and looking determined enough to take on the entire Ministry, if need be. Pride and relief coiled together in Harry’s stomach, but he hung back while Hermione hurried forward to offer a few words of encouragement. Ginny gave no sign that she’d seen him as she and George went into the interview room with Wickham and Phelps. Harry swallowed the unexpected Snitch of disappointment fluttering up his throat and followed Hermione into the adjoining room. He wasn’t surprised to find Ron and Summers already there, waiting to watch and listen through the one-way viewing portal charmed into the wall.

Clutching George’s hand like a lifeline, Ginny perched nervously at the edge of one of the four overstuffed armchairs surrounding a low table holding a tea set. The room was in its victim interview mode—a calming array of blues and greens with muted lamplight. When set up for interrogations, it was icy white with glaring spotlights and uncomfortable suspect chairs drawn up to a cold steel table with wrist shackles.

Declining the offer of tea, Ginny stoically told her story, answering Wickham’s gentle questions and Phelps’s occasional blunt inquiries with equal composure. As she talked, Harry relived the terror he’d felt at not being able to help her, and the food he’d just eaten churned in his stomach at the realization of how close he’d come to losing her permanently. He drew in several deep, steadying breaths to keep his lunch from reappearing.

As the discussion dragged on, Ginny wilted bit by bit until she looked as if she would crumple to the floor. And with each tiny sag, Harry’s irritation ballooned. Couldn’t they see she’d had enough? He was on the verge of storming over to put a stop to things when Wickham stood and held out her hand to Ginny, signaling the end of the session.

Ginny shook the hands of both Aurors. “Would it be possible for me to speak with Ha—erm, Aurors Potter and Summers?”

As Phelps left the room to meet her request, George put his arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “You don’t have to do this now, Gin. You’ve done enough for one day. You look exhausted. Let’s get you back—”

“No, George.” She gently pushed him away. “I’m fine. I need to—”

Harry didn’t hear what she needed to do because Hermione zapped the portal closed just as Phelps opened the door to wave him and Summers out. When they stepped into the interview room, Ginny moved behind one of the armchairs and held onto the back with a white-knuckled grip, then gave George a pleading look.

“Could we have a minute?”

George didn’t look happy about leaving, but he nodded without malice at Harry and Summers on his way out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

“I wanted to thank you,” Ginny said, pulling Harry’s attention back to her, even though she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “And to apologize. I... I was foolish to be so rude when you tried to help me.” She focused on Summers. “I know you’ve been warning him off for weeks, now. Val and Kelby tried to get me to take him more seriously, but…”

“No problem,” Summers said. “S’not your fault he’s a perverted prick. We should be able to put him away for quite a while now.”

“Yes, well…” Ginny stepped around the chair and put her arms about his neck in a brief hug. The monster in Harry’s chest snarled, even though Summers looked gobsmacked and barely touched her in return. She pulled back after a moment and looked up at him. “Thank you.”

Summers flushed—Harry couldn’t ever remember seeing him do that before—and stammered, “Erm, no problem. Happy to help.” Flashing a desperate look at Harry that held a mixture of guilt and apology, Summers backed toward the door, trying for a casual strut that was ruined when he hit the wall. “Erm, I’d better, erm, yeah, uh…” He slipped out and closed the door with a firm click.

Harry turned back to find Ginny staring at him, her huge eyes standing out in stark contrast to the pallor that washed out even her freckles and made her hair look more vivid than usual, in spite of it being limp and lackluster. He sucked in a shocked breath at the memory that flashed through his mind of a ghostly image standing on the stairs at the Burrow, begging him and George not to fight—the image of Ginny, depressed and defeated after he’d pushed her over the edge with unkept promises.

“It’s not your fault,” Ginny whispered.

Harry jerked. Had she read his mind?

She cleared her throat. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine for not paying attention… and for being… arrogant. I obviously can’t take care of myself the way I thought I could.” Anger suddenly flared in her eyes, and his heart fluttered to see that his fearless, fiery Ginny was still in there. But her next words made him wonder where that anger was being directed—at him or herself. Her voice came out with a hard edge to it. “I suppose you were right to send me to the children’s box for protection dur—”

“What? No! Ginny, no! I didn’t send you up there to _protect_ you. Bloody hell! If I were going to do that, I’d have sent you _anywhere_ else. I knew Dolohov was going to target the children and that you could protect _them_. Hermione told me how you took charge and got them settled down so she could set the wards. You were brilliant! Just like you were when you fought Montague off. If you’d stopped for just one second, he’d have Disapparated and I can’t bear to think—” Harry closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed back the bile that had risen again. “You _can_ take care of yourself. I just wish I’d been quicker so you wouldn’t’ve had to.”

The fire in her eyes died and she stared at her feet, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. “Yeah, well, if I hadn’t been so… there was no need for me to be such a bitch about it. I’m sorry for taking all of my frustrations out on you lately. And for falling apart on you last night.” She flicked a glance at him beneath her lashes before looking back toward the floor. “Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder.”

Harry’s heart twisted at the picture of misery she portrayed. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, reassure her. But she looked as if she would shatter into a million pieces… just like she’d looked when she’d sent him away before. And she hadn’t wanted him to touch her, then. She probably wouldn’t want him to, now, either.

But he had to do _something_.

“That’s what friends are for, yeah?” he finally spluttered. “Shoulders to cry on and all that. We _are_ still friends… aren’t we?”

She lifted suspiciously bright eyes and twisted her lips in a half-hearted semblance of a smile. “Yeah. Still friends.”

Harry’s shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans as he scrambled for something intelligent to say… anything to wipe that defeated look from her face. “I, erm… I was thinking of going over to check on the children. Make sure they’re okay. Would you… erm… you could come with me… if you want.”

He was as surprised at the invitation as she looked, but he somehow managed to keep his face from showing it. And besides, now that he’d said it, he thought it was a brilliant idea.

After a long moment, she gave him a real smile—it was small but genuine. “Yeah. That sounds good. I could use a distraction this afternoon.”

He couldn’t keep his own grin from blossoming. “Fantastic!” He backed toward the door, about as gracefully as Summers had done. “Just let me, erm, get my jacket. I’ll be right back.”

As he sprinted down the hall to his office, the monster in his chest purred and rubbed itself languidly around his insides like a cat demanding to be stroked. He’d made her smile. That was more than enough reason to ignore the warning bells going off in his head. He was just being a good friend. That’s all. Just a friend helping a friend in need. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing at all.


	50. Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yeah, he was most definitely mad… and utterly buggered.

Harry was slowly, but surely, going completely mad.

With a frustrated growl, he looked around to be sure he wouldn’t have to Obliviate any Muggles, then gave the hedgerow a vicious punch. Not that it did any good—his hand went right through the portal to the children’s home. This was at least the tenth time in the past three weeks he’d Apparated here without meaning to.

Ginny had been spending most of her time with the children during her mid-season break. Unfortunately, she had also spent nearly every minute in Harry’s thoughts, meaning that he ended up here, no matter how determined he was to reach any other destination he deliberated—which could be dangerous. Just yesterday, he’d Apparated all the way from the base camp in the French Alps in one go instead of making the usual three intermediate hops. That shouldn’t even have been possible. He was lucky not to have left bits of himself all over Britain already, and now he had to worry about Europe, too.

Of course, _Ginny_ rearranging his bits was the real danger. She’d be furious if she found out why he’d been popping round so often. He knew she could take care of herself. He did. Mostly. But even with Montague and his goons tucked away in Azkaban, Harry still couldn’t seem to stop checking in to reassure himself that she was safe. He was just worried about her… as a friend. She’d said they were still friends, and friends worried about each other. And checked up on each other. That’s all it was.

Really.

He glared at the hedgerow as if it had offended him. She was probably fine. Of course she was. Someone would’ve let him know if she wasn’t. And he’d just been here yesterday… and every other day this week. And besides, tomorrow being Saturday, he’d probably end up here by mid-afternoon… unless he could get through his work before lunchtime… or just took the day off like normal people did.

Harry huffed. He was expected at Ron and Hermione’s in a couple of hours. He should just go straight back to the office and get a head start on the reports he’d planned to review in the morning.

But he was already here. And the children seemed to enjoy his visits. Perhaps he should go in for a bit. Just for a few minutes…

Right.

With a defeated sigh, he stiffened his spine and stepped through the hedgerow. Yes, she was fine and running Seeker drills with a Snitch charmed to stay close to the ground.

And, no, his need to be here had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the way her face always lit up when she saw him—like it was doing now. Without permission, his mouth answered her grin across the play yard, and the monster in his chest ceased its anxious pacing to curl up with a contented purr.

Harry watched her laughing and playing with the children, her face aglow. His heart swelled with pride at the way she’d bounced back from her near tragedy. That feisty spirit was one of the things he lov— _liked_ , one of the things he _liked_ most about her. Sure, she still had some bad days, but she looked nothing like the limp, pale waif of three weeks ago.

In fact, she looked positively edible. He reckoned the short fawn-colored vest with the fuzzy lining and matching knee-high boots were meant to ward off the early December chill. But the creamy turtleneck and Muggle jeans underneath were doing much more to raise his own temperature. She bent over to talk to one of the children, confirming Harry’s undying devotion to those form-fitting Muggle jeans. Muggle jeans covering a _very_ fit form. Merlin! Did she use magic to apply them directly to her skin?

Surreptitiously adjusting himself, he took an involuntary step forward—

_Stop! Just stop!_

With another huff, he jammed his clenched fists into his pockets and forced himself to the bench near the back steps of the house. Walking the fine line between being friendly and keeping his physical and emotional distance was getting harder by the minute. Why couldn’t he just walk away?

The answer came as an echo in his head: _I thought you were dead… I thought you were dead…_

Out of all the things that had happened to her that day, why had she focused on the danger _he’d_ been in? He supposed things had looked pretty bad—his leg sliced open to the bone from hip to knee, the fall—but he’d never once thought he was near death. And as many times as he’d been near it, he should know. But none of that was a reason for her to become hysterical over his safety and ignore her own.

That was the thing that baffled him most. As insistent as she was about being able to take care of herself, Ginny apparently didn’t trust his ability to do the same. It was the reason she’d sent him away all those years ago. And neither of them had really changed.

No, this… “friendship” just wasn’t going to work. He _had_ to get a grip, pull back now before things got any more complicated. Nothing good could come of continuing as they were going.

“I could use your help over here, Potter. You don’t get special treatment, you know. You come here, you have to play.”

Harry jerked out of his thoughts to find Ginny standing before him, hands on her hips, but the annoyance in her tone didn’t match the twinkle in her eyes. He couldn’t help smiling as her lips quirked, ruining the bossy demeanor she was struggling to hold.

“Sorry. Just got in from Italy. Needed a minute to catch my breath,” he improvised.

She dropped down beside him on the bench, her jean-clad thigh pressing against his and sending heat straight to his groin. “Everything okay?”

He plastered on a reassuring grin—anything to erase the worry that had replaced the twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, yeah, fine. Just… erm, the Apparition over that distance takes a bit out of me.” He’d made it in two jumps today, but Harry was surprised to find that he was telling the truth, although the adrenaline generated by her nearness was quickly vanquishing his fatigue.

Her worried eyes searched his for a moment before they took on a glint of challenge. “Well, good. The kids are ready for the match. If you’re tired, I should have no problem making you go down in flames.” She stood and held out her hand. “Coming, Potter?”

Harry stifled a groan; her words conjured all sorts of inappropriate images in his head. Gritting his teeth, he bared them in the semblance of a grin. “We’ll see who’s going down, Weasley.”

Wincing at the images generated by his own choice of words, he took her extended hand without thinking, then jerked away at the jolt of desire that shot through him. Every instinct was screaming at him to run. But he squashed the impulse when he caught the fleeting hurt in her eyes before she turned away.

“Come along, then,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Harry’s heart clenched. He couldn’t walk away now, not when he was directly responsible for that light tone that sounded just a bit too forced. With a grimace, he shrugged off his cloak and followed, shifting his jeans to make it easier to walk, although the sight of the Muggle-jean-covered bum in front of him made the effort useless.

Oh, yeah, he was most definitely mad… and utterly buggered.

***

Once the Quidditch match was over, Ginny sat on the bench cuddling Sally and watching Harry try to teach some of the children how to play Muggle football. He was almost as bad as they were about not keeping their hands off the ball, but she’d bet her signing bonus that he was using wandless magic to help the kids do better than they might otherwise—some of those goals were just too impossible to believe.

She sighed. He was driving her completely mad.

When he was with the children, he let his guard down and looked so relaxed and happy, liked the Harry she’d known that autumn after the war. Oh, he occasionally included her in those warm smiles, but then he’d realize what he was doing and his eyes would shutter and his smile disappear until he turned back to the children again. Even on Sundays at the Burrow, he would sometimes forget himself and talk with her, look at her like he used to, before catching himself and backing away again. The rest of the time, he was merely polite, as if they were acquaintances making small talk at a Ministry function.

Of course, she thought she knew why he was running more hot and cold by the day, but she couldn’t let herself believe it. No matter what Hermione and Fleur and Angelina and even Healer Andrews hinted at (Ginny wouldn’t let them say it outright), she couldn’t allow herself to hope. If she did, she’d never survive when he’d finally had enough and disappeared forever.

So she tried to follow the plan she’d come up with under Healer Andrews’s guidance—be open and friendly, don’t let him see when she was hurt, and never, ever call attention to it when he either slipped up and was friendly or pushed her away. Just be her happy self. A simple enough plan… just bloody hard to execute.

And if it didn’t work, she did have a back-up plan.

Ginny hid her smirk in Sally’s hair and wondered what her prim and proper Mind Healer would say about using a well-chosen wardrobe and a lot of double entendre to wind Harry up. He might push her away emotionally, but at least one part of him was all-too-obviously still attracted to her.

Madam Mason called the children in for supper and Ginny said her goodbyes to them outside. She’d been here most of the day and dark had long-since fallen beyond the magically lighted play yard. Besides, Harry was flicking his wand to gather up the toys and put them away—she wasn’t willing to let him get away without one last attempt to win a smile.

Ginny bent over to pick up the girls’ dolls and accessories from the blanket under the tree—no sense using magic when this was just as easy… and more effective. She stood to walk to the storage box and smiled to herself when she saw him jerk his head away from her direction. But he didn’t back away like he usually did. Maybe, if she were careful, this time…

“Thanks for coming.” Ginny kept her voice light and friendly. “The children really enjoy having you here.”

“No problem. It’s fun,” he said, grabbing his cloak from the bench, his face still open and relaxed.

“So, erm…” Ginny crossed her arms and cast a nervous glance around the yard. “Would you want to go and get something to eat, maybe? At the Leaky? Or we could go Muggle.”

He looked up from fastening his cloak, his eyes wide with surprise and something close to panic. She could almost see the excuses spinning through his brain. “Oh, erm… Sorry, I can’t. I’m, erm, headed to Ron and Hermione’s. But, erm… of course, you’d, you know, be welcome to come…”

The minute the words were out, his jaw snapped shut and his face closed off. He obviously hadn’t meant to say it. Ginny knew she should come up with an excuse, let him off the hook, but the last thing she wanted to do was go home alone to her cold, empty flat.

“Oh, I’d love to. Thanks for asking.” She took care not to let too much excitement creep into her voice, even though her heart was now beating frantically in her throat. Any sudden moves might spook him.

He looked away, hiding the pained look on his face. “Erm… why don’t you go on ahead? I see a stray Bludger under the swings.”

Not believing him for a minute, she took pity and Disapparated, but held her breath until he popped in behind her several long moments later.

In spite of her relief, Ginny couldn’t quite suppress her smug grin as she walked into the kitchen. Hermione’s eyes widened and for a split second she was speechless. Then she smiled… a knowing, wicked smile that she quickly hid when Harry came through the door.

“Ginny! What a nice surprise!” Hermione sing-songed and gave Ginny a hug. “I’ll set another place.”

“Sorry, I didn’t let you know,” Harry mumbled. “We were at the children’s home and I, erm, well, it just—”

“It’s fine, Harry,” Hermione said. “Ginny’s family, but you know you’re welcome to bring along a date anytime.”

Harry blanched and made a beeline for the door to the sitting room, stuttering something about finding Ron.

“Hermione!” Ginny hissed when he was gone. “He’s been skittish enough today.”

Hermione looked over her shoulder as she took a plate from the cupboard. “More than usual, you mean?”

Ginny flopped gracelessly into a chair and ran a hand over her face. “Yeah. He’s driving me completely barmy.”

Hermione set the plate and cutlery on the table and sank into the chair across from Ginny. “So I guess he invited you during one of the friendly moments?”

Ginny snorted. “It was definitely unintentional. I thought about letting him off the hook, saying I had something else to do, but… well…” she shrugged. “I wanted to come.”

“I’m glad you did.” Hermione said. “And what I said was true. You’re family. You’re welcome anytime, so he can just get his head out of his arse about it.”

“Yeah, but calling it a date isn’t helping.”

Hermione got up to stir something in the pot on the stove. “Well, I couldn’t resist taking the mickey, you know, giving him back a bit of his own. He’s been an absolute horror at work lately. Sometimes I’d like to just shake him until his teeth rattle!”

“Whose teeth are you rattling?” Ron swooped down the steps into the kitchen with Harry right behind. “Trying to drum up more business for your parents, are you?” Ron didn’t wait for an answer before dipping Hermione backwards for a noisy snog.

“Ronald!” Hermione protested when he set her back on her feet. In mock indignation, she swatted him with the oven mitt she was holding, but her cheeks were tinged with pink and she couldn’t quite hide her smirk of pleasure when he wrapped his arms around her for another kiss.

Ginny blushed. Ron and Hermione didn’t exactly hide their affection around the family, but they weren’t usually so blatant. She peeked through her lashes at Harry. He was studiously not watching them and finally sighed. “Knock it off, you two. You’re putting me off my dinner.”

When they ignored him, Ginny leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. “Do they do this a lot?”

He rolled his eyes. “ _All_ the time. It’s quite nauseating. Sometimes, when they get too carried away, they don’t even notice when I leave.”

Ginny giggled. “Maybe that’s what they’re trying for.”

Harry quirked his mouth into a reluctant grin, eyes dancing with amusement. And then, in a blink, the warm look was gone. He turned abruptly to open the refrigerator door. “Who wants Butterbeer?”

Dinner wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as Ginny had expected. Once Hermione—wait, _Hermione?_ —asked about the Harpies’ chances for the Cup, the conversation grew lively and Harry joined in without reserve. But by the time pudding was served, the discussion had wound down and he was rapidly retreating back into himself.

When the silence became awkward, Hermione stood with a flourish. “Clean-up time. Gentlemen, I believe it’s your turn.”

“Yes, dear,” Ron said and grabbed Hermione around the waist to pull her into his lap. “I’ll be honored to tidy up after that excellent nosh.” He kissed her with abandon.

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Ginny asked, flashing a grin at Harry, who seemed to be suppressing one of his own.

Ron broke the suction on Hermione’s mouth to look somberly at his sister. “You’ve no idea of the wonders that can be wrought by the love of a good woman.”

Harry snorted. “Wrought? Who even says that? Come on, suck-up. We’ve dishes to wash.”

“With soap! And HOT water!” Hermione commanded as she slipped out of Ron’s grasping hands. “Cleaning Charms just don’t do as good a job.”

Ron and Harry stood and rolled their eyes at each other.

“Yes, dear,” Ron said, snaking a quick arm around Hermione’s waist to pull her in for another kiss.

She pushed him away with a playful punch. “I know what you’re up to, Ronald Weasley, and you’re not going to charm your way out of doing the dishes. Come, Ginny,” Hermione said with mock formality. “Let's retire to the sitting room.”

***

Harry watched Ginny leave with an unsettling mixture of relief and regret. Merlin, he’d wanted nothing more than to follow Ron’s lead and pull her into his lap. At least with her out of the room, he wouldn’t have to fight his own body any more.

“All right, there, mate?” Ron was watching him curiously. “Heard anything yet?”

With a start, Harry realized he’d been fingering his charmed Galleon. He’d taken to wearing it on a short leather strip tied around his neck so he wouldn’t miss it heating in the night or when he was preoccupied with… other thoughts. Since the attack, the coin had been stone cold and the wards at Stormhaven Cove unbreached. Harry had begun to wonder if Malfoy was still alive.

“No, not a word. I’m getting worried about him.” Harry picked up a towel to dry the dishes Ron had set to washing in the sink—Hermione had said to use hot water and soap, not that they couldn’t use magic to apply them.

“So, you don’t think he’s buggered off or turned back to the Dark Side?”

Harry had to smile at the reference to Ron’s new favorite Muggle films. “No, he wouldn’t do that. Not while his mo—” Harry caught himself just in time. “Not when he’s got so much to lose.”

They worked in silence until the washing was done. Ron flicked his wand several times to move the last of the dishes into the drainer, then leaned back against the counter, ankles crossed and arms folded over his chest, to give Harry an exasperated smirk.

“You do know we’ve worked it out, don’t you?”

Harry froze in the act of putting the stewpot in the cupboard. “Worked what out?” He didn’t really need to ask, but he did need to stall for time while he came up with a cover story.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Harry, we could understand you wanting to rescue Mrs. Malfoy after what she did for you during the final battle. But using her as bait and letting her” —he made quote marks with his fingers— “murderers get away? And then your” —more quote marks— “contact suddenly showing up again after how many years?” Ron snorted. “Hermione didn’t even have to explain it to me. I think I’m insulted that you thought I wouldn’t suss out something so blatantly obvious.” 

Harry cringed. He really hadn’t thought the thing through properly. “Ron… I couldn’t… I can’t…”

“Don’t worry. Hermione and I haven’t even really discussed it, much less talked to Summers about it, although I’m sure he’s worked it out, too. And we certainly won’t say anything to anyone else. But watch your back, mate. I still don’t trust that effin’ ferret. He’s only out to save his own skin and he won’t think twice about sacrificing yours to do it. I know you won’t take any of us with you the next time you meet with him, but just… just let us know when and where you’re going— _if_ he ever shows up again.”

Harry swallowed hard. What had he ever done to deserve such good friends? “Thanks, Ron. I—”

“Oh, no problem, mate.” Ron cut him off with a casual wave. “We just need to know where to start looking for your body.”

Harry gasped at the joking implication that he couldn’t take care of himself against sodding _Malfoy_. He threw the sopping dishtowel at Ron’s face. “Wanker!”

Ron sent it back in a flash. “Tosspot!”

“Twat!”

“Dickhead!”

The insults flew, along with the wet towel, the soapy sponge, and anything else they could put their hands on for weapons that wouldn’t do any real damage. Finally Ron diverted the water from the faucet and doused Harry, who returned the favor by wandlessly Summoning the dirty dishwater in a wave over Ron’s head.

They stopped, still shaking with laughter, and surveyed the disaster around them. Ron grew somber and heaved a heavy sigh. “Reckon we’d better set things right before Hermione see this.” He looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. “Right, Scarhead?”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I reckon so… Coppernob.” He ducked the dripping towel that hit the wall and slid to the floor with a splat.

The cleanup was going to take much longer than it should have.

***

Ginny barely had time to curl up on the sofa before Hermione settled on the other end and got right to the point. “Definitely more skittish than usual. Any idea why?”

“No clue. I just try to act like I don’t notice, but it’s getting bloody hard.”

“I know what you mean. Work has been a nightmare. I wish he’d learn to take his frustrations out on the bad guys, not the people who are trying to help. If Summers doesn’t hex him soon, I just might.”

Ginny gave Hermione a pained look. “Trying to figure him out makes my brain hurt. Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” Hermione said. “How are things going with Healer Andrews?”

Well, that wasn’t much better, but Ginny knew she probably wouldn’t be allowed to change the subject again. She gave it a shot anyway and shrugged. “Fine.”

“Fine, as in you’re making progress, or fine as in you’re avoiding the topic?”

“Fine as in fine,” Ginny growled. “We talk three times a week. We’ve worked through ways to control my fear for my own safety, and she’s helped me work out how to deal with Harry being in danger—although at this point it’s still theory and I really don’t fancy testing it. But I’m fine!”

“And the nightmares?”

Forcing herself to hold Hermione’s gaze, Ginny tried for a casual tone. “Okay, I guess. They’re not as bad.” She held her breath, hoping she’d managed to sound believable.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not overdoing the Dreamless Sleep Potion, are you?”

Ginny lifted her chin in defiance. “No, Hermione. I’m a big girl, now. I can follow my Healer’s orders without supervision.”

Hermione had the grace to look ashamed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want to go back to the way things were at school. You’ve come so far… I just want the best for you.”

“I know. And I appreciate it. I don’t want to go back there, either.” With a sigh, Ginny relaxed a bit. Maybe the time had come to confide in the one person who truly understood what she’d had been through. “You’re also right about the nightmares, too. They’re not really any better.”

Hermione’s face filled with concern. “Knowing that Montague is in Azkaban doesn’t help?”

“It might, if the nightmares were about Montague.”

“But…”

“They’re about Harry.” Ginny’s voice cracked on the emotion she was working hard to contain. “If he’s not falling from the sky and being slashed to pieces by Dolohov, Hagrid’s carrying him from the Forest and he’s not waking up, or I can hear him screaming in the dungeons, but I can’t find him no matter how many dark, dank hallways I run through.”

“Oh, Ginny… Have you told Healer Andrews?”

Ginny rubbed a hand over her face, suddenly bone weary. “Yeah. She suggested meditation or Occlumency, but I’m rubbish at them.”

“What about—”

“I’ve tried it. Whatever it is you’re going to suggest, I’ve tried it. Reading something pleasant before bedtime, playing music while I sleep, working myself to exhaustion, sleeping during the daytime, getting pissed out of my mind. I’ve tried everything, but nothing seems to help.”

Hermione slid down the couch to rub soothing circles on Ginny’s shoulder in quiet support, but the silence wasn’t completely peaceful. Ginny could tell Hermione was thinking, and that wasn’t always a good thing.

“Have you tried talking to Harry?”

Ginny snorted. “In what universe do you think that conversation could take place?”

“Mmm. Good point.” Hermione gave Ginny’s shoulder a squeeze. “Well, there’s only one other answer then. You’ll have to ask Healer Andrews to prescribe the Sunshine Serum. I’m not sure why she hasn’t done so already. Dreamless Sleep is meant to be a short-term solution, but Sunshine was designed for use over an extended period to treat exactly the type of post-traumatic stress symptoms you’re presenting. Besides, if anyone should get a benefit from it, you should—it was developed specifically for you.”

Once Jacqueline Andrews had learned of the “miracle potion” Hermione had created to handle Ginny’s depression at school, the Mind Healer had encouraged putting it on the market. George had jumped in to handle production and sales, and “Sunshine”—so named for its ability to push away the dark clouds of depression—had become the potion of choice for most Mind Healers treating the disorder.

Ginny pushed herself to her feet and paced across the room. “Hermione, I really appreciate your concern, but I don’t want to be dependent on any potion—not even Sunshine.”

“But, Ginny—”

_CRASH!!_

Shouts from the kitchen sent Ginny and Hermione into battle stance, but the raucous laughter that followed quickly eased their fear. Hermione took off, muttering under her breath, “Merlin, do I even want to know?”

When she drew up short at the kitchen door, Ginny peered past, then clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in a laugh.

The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a Wheezes lab explosion. Towels, oven mitts, and all manner of kitchen gadgets floated in the murky ankle-deep water swirling with multiple, magical whirlpools. But, even worse, Ron and Harry, holding their wands in one hand and oversized wooden spoons crossed like swords in the other, looked like the refrigerator had vomited on them—they were coated in catsup, mustard, chocolate syrup, and several unidentifiable concoctions. _Were those beans sliding down Harry’s glasses?_

One look at Hermione, arms crossed and toe tapping, had Ron staggering across the kitchen to make grab for her.

She jerked out of his reach. “Don’t you _dare_ touch me, Ronald Weasley! Is _this_ what you call cleaning up?”

As Ron stammered through his apology, Ginny cast an amused glance at Harry. He met her gaze with twinkling eyes, biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing and quietly swishing his wand to vanish the mess from the walls, the floor, Ron, and himself.

Just as Ron turned to appeal for his support, Harry’s expression changed to surprise. He clapped a hand to the base of his throat, yanking away something attached to a leather strip to stare at it for a moment. “I have to go.” He had his cloak and was halfway out the door when Ron lunged across the room to grab his arm.

“Mate, you promised.”

Harry shook his head as if to argue, then stopped, flexed his jaw, and pointed his wand at the back-to-normal-size wooden spoon on the table. It glowed blue for a second. “If I’m not back in an hour, that’ll bring you to me.” Sparing only a passing glance at Ginny, he wrenched himself from Ron’s grasp.

“Harry, wait—” But Harry was gone. Ron punched the doorframe. “Stupid wanker!”

Ginny stared into the darkness beyond the open door, the shiver running down her spine caused by the foreboding in her chest rather than the icy night air. She turned just in time to catch Hermione’s frown and sharp head-shake at Ron, who audibly snapped his mouth shut and slammed the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

“What’s going on?” Ginny looked back and forth between them.

Ignoring her, they held a silent conversation, apparently deciding how much—or, more likely, what lie—to tell her.

Ginny stamped her foot. “Damn it! Don’t patronize me! What’s going on? Where did he go?”

Their gaze held for another few seconds before Hermione let her breath out in a huff and turned to put the teakettle on. Ron flopped into a chair and gestured at the one across the table. Ginny eased into it, careful to keep her anxiety off her face—she refused to give them any excuse not to tell her everything.

“You know Harry’s been working on this case,” Ron began as Hermione rattled cups and spoons, conveying her displeasure with the conversation.

Ginny ignored her and nodded. “Dolohov.”

Ron cast a glance at Hermione, then pressed his lips together and turned back to Ginny. “Well, you see, he—Harry’s got this contact… a spy in Dolohov’s camp. He—the spy—contacted Harry at the very beginning and Harry’s the only one he’ll talk to. In fact, Harry’s the only one who really knows who he is.”

_Harry’s the only one he’ll talk to…_

A memory rose to the surface of Ginny’s mind: _I have to leave a bit early tonight. Someone came to me with some information. He won’t talk to anyone else…_

The foreboding in her chest exploded into full-blown fear. “It’s the same one, isn’t it? The one he met just before he was captured that autumn.”

Ron and Hermione shared a worried look as she abandoned the tea and sat down.

“We assume so,” Hermione said, her voice tense. “We don’t know anything for sure. You know Harry doesn’t…” She shook her head and went back to the teapot.

Ginny looked back at Ron. “You said he’d promised. What did he promise?”

Ron snorted. “He didn’t promise anything, the stupid wanker. I just said that to guilt him into leaving us some clue about where he was going, in case some—” Ron’s ear tips flamed and he ducked his head at Hermione’s glare.

Ginny’s anger flared. “Don’t treat me like a child! I’m not going to fall apart!”

Hermione sent Ron a look that should’ve had him flinching. He just gave her a sad smile and turned back to Ginny. “I told him if he wasn’t going to take someone along as backup, he needed to let us know where he was going in case something happened. So he left the portkey.”

The wooden spoon seemed to speak aloud. _If I’m not back in an hour…_

Ginny’s stomach curled with anxiety. This was it… time to test the coping skills she’d discussed with Healer Andrews. Breathe deeply. Focus on Harry’s uncanny ability to extricate himself from danger, even to the point of escaping death. Stay busy. Think of other things. Seek support from friends and family. Do what she could to help and accept that she’d have to leave the rest in the hands of others… or to Fate. Call on whatever higher power might have some sway. Don’t let fear have control.

“Are you okay?” Hermione’s tone held a world of worry.

Shooting a quick glance at the stubbornly brown spoon in the middle of the table, Ginny sat up straight and gave Hermione a tight smile. “I have to be, don’t I? What would change if I wasn’t?”

Hermione nodded. “The only thing we can do now is wait.” She gave Ginny a grim smile. “And finish our discussion.”

Ginny sighed. That would be one way to keep her mind occupied.

***

_Harry tumbled over and over, his body jerking with each jolt of spellfire that coursed like lightning through the grey mist. She’d never reach him in time. The grass on the pitch sprang up to wrap like steel bands around her legs. Her sluggish arms refused to catch her as she stumbled and hit the ground—_

Ginny opened her eyes with a start, heaving great gulps of air down her raspy throat. A nightmare. _Another_ nightmare. Her shoulder throbbed painfully against the rug even though her legs were still hopelessly tangled in the sheets over her head. She let her muscles go lax to give her heart a chance to return to a normal rhythm. The dark window told her morning was still a long way off even though the room was bright from the lights left on for this very reason. She glanced at the clock. At least she’d got nearly three hours of sleep this time—better than she’d been doing the past few days.

Grunting at the ache in her shoulder and hip, Ginny untangled herself and stumbled into the kitchen. Perhaps a pain potion and some hot chocolate would allow her to get a bit more rest. Thank Merlin it was the holiday break and she didn’t have to be at practice this week.

Settling at the table, her hands around the warm mug, Ginny finally had to admit that Hermione might be right. Maybe it was time to ask for some Sunshine… just enough to get her over the hump, until she could get some rest. Of course, getting through this without a potion might be easier if she weren’t alone every night, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. She could stay at the Burrow, but the thought of Mum’s coddling made her skin crawl. And staying at Ron and Hermione’s wasn’t an option—they’d been sucked right back into Harry’s intrigue.

After Harry had left Friday night, the three of them had sat at the kitchen table and talked, pretending to ignore the spoon for forty-five minutes. Then, with nothing more than a glance from Hermione, Ron had flicked out a Patronus—Scott Summers had showed up less than five minutes later. No one mentioned his reason for coming or the growing tension in the room; they’d just chatted about nothing, their hands folded on the table, inches from the spoon. Ginny knew they were uncomfortable with her presence—she was surprised that they hadn’t sent her home—but she had decided they weren’t leaving her behind. Two minutes before the Portkey was to activate, Harry’s Patronus had bounded through the wall, asking Ron and Hermione to meet him at the office. Scott had gone with them. Ginny hadn’t talked to any of them since.

Today was Wed—no, Thursday, now. Nearly a week had passed.

Swallowing a gulp of chocolate, Ginny winced at the sting of the too-hot liquid, but welcomed the distraction it gave. Anything to help dispel the lingering shadows in her mind.

That was the hardest part of the nightmares—and the “daymares.” They all boiled down to fear for Harry’s safety when he didn’t give a rat’s arse that she was worried about him. He hadn’t spared a single thought for her before he’d dashed into the night, and he certainly hadn’t bothered to let her know he was okay afterward. If not for Hermione’s brief note Saturday morning, and Ron’s Floo-call to let Mum know they wouldn’t be there on Sunday, Ginny wouldn’t have a clue if Harry, or any of them, were alive or not. At times like this, she almost wished he hadn’t come back. Life was so much easier when she wasn’t sitting about, waiting for bad news. 

Ginny drained her cup and set it in the sink with a snort. Who was she kidding? Of course she was glad he was back. But she was angry. Angry at him for putting the safety of others before himself… angry at herself for caring so much when she knew he didn’t… angry about being angry. This was stupid. Maybe it was time to give Harry what he wanted and just walk away. Not that he’d even notice. But perhaps it was the only way to give herself some peace.

Right.

The truth was she loved Harry—had done, heart and soul, for her entire life. She could no more walk away than she could Apparate to Australia in one hop. But she wasn’t sure she could keep up her end of their friendship, either.

Merlin, she was so tired. How could she make any intelligent decisions with all this cotton in her head? Dragging herself into the sitting room, Ginny curled up on the sofa and pulled the quilt down on top of her. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a bit, even if she didn’t sleep…

When she opened them again, hazy streams of sunlight were fighting for dominance with the lamps. She blinked, trying to work out why she was on the sofa and what had awakened her.

“Ginny?” Mum’s voice was coming from the fireplace loud enough to be heard from the Burrow without the Floo. “Ginny, are you up?”

Yeah, that would wake anyone.

Glad that she’d moved the furniture to prevent potentially embarrassing Floo-views, Ginny sat up and stretched. The last thing she wanted was to explain why she was sleeping on the sofa. “Coming, Mum.”

“Are you still in bed? The morning’s half gone!”

Ginny looked at the clock and grimaced as she dropped to her knees. “Mum, it’s only half eight. And I’m on holiday. I can have a lie-in if I want.”

“I suppose,” Mum agreed, even if her tone didn’t. “Well, you’re up now and I need you to go and help Andromeda. She’s a bit peaky and Teddy is running her ragged. I’d go myself, but the Christmas orders for jumpers are coming in by the droves and I’m working day and night to get them done.”

“Sure, Mum,” Ginny said through a yawn. “I’ll go as soon as I get a shower.”

“Thanks, dear.”

The Floo went dark and Ginny pushed herself to her feet with a groan. Well, at least she’d got a few more hours’ sleep and her head was clearer even if her body felt like it had been through another war.

“You look exhausted, dearie,” the mirror said the minute Ginny looked into it.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Thanks. That’s ever so helpful.” But the bloody thing was right. She wasn’t sure even her best potions and charms could handle her sallow skin or the bags beneath her bloodshot eyes. “Bollocks!” she grumbled and started the shower. Not much point in even trying. Besides, who was going to see her today anyway?

***

Harry’s jaw fell open. He snapped it shut and schooled his face quickly, but it was too late. At the sight of his momentary panic, Ginny had scowled and turned away from the open door without a word. She was the last person he’d expected to answer Andromeda’s door—and the last person he’d have sought out today, even if the monster in his chest was doing the conga.

“If you’re not coming in, close the door so the cold doesn’t.” Ginny’s flat voice snapped him back to reality.

Reflexively, he stepped over the threshold, shutting the door behind him, then landed back against it with a grunt when a shrieking three-year-old green-topped blur hit his legs at full-speed.

“Harry! Harry! Nana’s sick so Ginny came to play with me. And now you’re here and it’s snowing and we can build a fort and throw snowballs and—”

“Mrs. Tonks is napping.” Ginny spoke just loudly enough to be heard over Teddy’s chatter, her voice and face impassive. She looked like she needed a nap, too. “Can you watch him for a bit while I fix lunch?”

Harry nodded as he pried Teddy’s arms from his thighs and hoisted the boy to his hip. “The snow’s just started, mate, It’ll be a while before there’s enough to play in.” Paying only half a mind to Teddy’s babbling protest, Harry watched Ginny disappear around the corner, wondering at the change since he’d last seen her.

Teddy wriggled loose and galloped into the sitting room, whooping at the top of his lungs and dragging Harry back from his thoughts with a wince. That much exuberance needed a bigger outlet than the sitting room could offer. He bundled Teddy into his jacket and herded him out the door. But entertaining Teddy required more energy than thought, and Harry quickly found his mind turning back to Ginny’s subdued demeanor and the reason he hadn’t seen her in nearly a week.

When he’d left Ron and Hermione’s on Friday, he’d spent nearly an hour at Stormhaven Cove wringing every last drop of information out of Malfoy about Dolohov’s plan for simultaneous attacks in Austria and Scotland. The resulting chaos had run all of the multi-national teams ragged. They’d successfully defended the Scottish village, although the only captured Death Eater who had known anything about the cloaking process had fallen over dead when asked about it—the unfortunate result of combining Veritaserum with an Unbreakable Vow. The Austrian village had been lost and Harry had spent the past four days whipping his teams into a frenzy in an effort to get it back. The only reason he wasn’t still at it was because Hermione had threatened to remove vital organs if he didn’t back off and let everyone do their jobs. 

The frantic pace had exhausted him, but the re-immersion into work had been good. He’d had less time to think—to obsess—over Ginny. This had been his chance to refocus, to restore some distance. He’d renewed his determination to severely limit their time together and to reinforce his defenses when he knew they would be unavoidably thrown together.

Only he hadn’t counted on seeing her today. Without even trying, she’d devastated all of his good intentions.

Conjuring a steady stream of slushy ice-balls—the closest he could come to snow without concentrating—for Teddy to throw at the tree, Harry worked on setting his head back in order. By the time Ginny called them in to eat, he had a feeble emotional Protego in place and was moderately confident in his ability to bluff his way through a friendly lunch.

But he needn’t have worried. Ginny was extremely subdued, exhibiting none of the warmth she’d shown in the past few weeks. She responded politely to his attempts at conversation, but focused most of her attention on serving soup and sandwiches and keeping Teddy from making too much of a mess. Fortunately, Teddy’s incessant chatter filled the awkward gaps.

About halfway through lunch, Mrs. Tonks joined them and Ginny retreated further, leaving Harry to hold up most of the conversation and tend to Teddy. Harry watched her with increasing concern. She seemed tired, but showed no signs of illness. Perhaps this was just lingering effects of the attack. No, that wasn’t right, either. Even on her worst days in the past few weeks, she’d never seemed so… aloof didn’t describe it. Resigned? Harry’s heart stuttered. Perhaps during his absence, she’d come to the same conclusions that he had. But that was good, right?

Then why did it feel so horrible?

Before lunch was done, Teddy’s eyes were drooping and his head was bobbing in a comical effort to stay awake. Mrs. Tonks sighed. “He doesn’t usually take naps anymore, but he was up long before the sun this morning. I just hope this doesn’t mean it’ll be midnight before he’s ready for bed.”

When Teddy finally gave up the fight, Harry took him to the bedroom, then on the way back to the kitchen, gave in to his Auror impulses and paused in the hallway out of view.

“…feeling so much better,” Mrs. Tonks said. “I do so appreciate your help.”

“I was happy to do it.” Ginny’s voice sounded much warmer than it had before. “Let me know if I need to come back when he wakes up.”

“Oh, I’m certain I’ll be fine now. What with the potion your mother sent and that lovely soup you made, I feel almost as good as new.”

“Well, you should still take advantage of the quiet and rest some more while you have the chance. You go and sit down. It’ll take me only a minute to clean up here.”

“Oh, I hate for you to do that. The breakfast dishes haven’t even been done.”

Harry decided that was his cue. “She’s right, Mrs. Tonks. You’ll need your energy for later. We’ll sort things here. Go and put your feet up in front of the fire.”

With only minor protest, Mrs. Tonks allowed herself to be shooed into the sitting room, but by the time Harry turned back around, Ginny was facing the sink, directing the washing up like a conductor leading a complicated symphony. Harry waved his wand to banish all of Teddy’s crumbs and straighten the chairs, then grabbed a towel to start on the dishes in the drainer.

Ginny glanced up in surprise. “I was going to do that with a charm.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s okay. I like to do it this way.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow and turned her attention back to the sink. They worked quietly for a few minutes, but the silence wasn’t comfortable—well, Ginny seemed content but Harry squirmed with the need to fill it.

“So, erm…” In spite of the towel he was holding, Harry’s hands were suddenly sweaty. “What did you… erm, are you… erm… going to see the children this afternoon?”

“No.” Harry waited but she didn’t say anything more as she guided the last of the dishes into the drainer and zapped them all dry, then grabbed a stack of plates to put in the cupboard. With no idea of what he was going to say, he opened his mouth to fill the silence again, then closed it with a snap as she finally continued without looking at him, her tone reluctant and disinterested. “I’m going to finish my Christmas shopping. Have you started yet? Christmas is less than two weeks away, you know, and I don’t think Fleur is up to doing it for you this year.”

Harry froze. Christmas. He hadn’t even thought about Christmas. And with the baby coming in a month, Fleur wasn’t up to doing even her own shopping, much less his too.

Ginny smirked. “I take that as a ‘no.’”

“Erm…”

She shook her head in pity and turned to put away the frying pan.

Harry’s mouth started working before his brain was engaged. “Could I come with you?” _Bloody hell!_ Where had that come from?

Ginny’s movement paused just long enough not to be natural, but Harry couldn’t see her face to gauge her thoughts.

“I mean, erm… I could use some advice…” _Stop!_ The bloody demon-monster in his chest had taken control of his bloody tongue. Distance! This was his chance to back away. What the bloody hell was he doing?

From her crouch in front of the cupboard, Ginny looked over her shoulder, apparently assessing his sincerity. Harry’s lips turned up in a hopeful smile. _Bloody hell!_ He hadn’t given permission for them to do that! And his brain was too muddled to even come up with creative profanity. He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

After a moment, she turned back to shut the cupboard door and gave a casual one-shoulder shrug. “I suppose.” She stood and leaned back against the counter, her arms and ankles crossed. “But I was going to go into Muggle London to find something for Dad.”

“Brilliant!” Harry didn’t bother fighting his big smile, even though his stomach was twisting into knots.

Ginny’s answering smile was fleeting and a little sad. She pushed off from the counter and turned toward the sitting room. “I need to go to Gringott’s first. We can Floo to my flat.”

Harry grabbed his cloak from the peg by the door and followed her, struggling to work out an exit strategy and strap a leash onto the monster doing celebratory back-flips in his chest.


	51. The Best Presents Come in Surprising Packages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas shopping brings some surprises -- good and bad.

_Why_ had she said he could come shopping with her? Why had he even asked to come along in the first place? Was it just the thrill of the hunt? Ginny shook her head in disgust. Despite his tendency to defy convention in every other respect, Harry seemed to be just like every other man—he couldn’t resist a challenge.

But her reticence hadn’t been feigned just to make him pursue her, and she really didn’t have it in her to play the game today. She was just plain tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. If he wanted to go shopping with her, for whatever reason, she didn’t have the will to fight him.

When they got to her flat, she took a few minutes to run a brush through her hair, cast a scant make-up charm, and change into nicer jumper. And, no, it had nothing to do with Harry showing up. She’d meant all along to clean up before going out. She just hadn’t dressed for shopping when she’d gone to Mrs. Tonks’s, and she didn’t want to be seen in public again in her well-worn Weasley jumper. Harry, fortunately, hadn’t recognized his old cast-off.

The trip to Gringotts was uneventful (even if being pressed against Harry in the tiny cart did make her heart flutter more than the wild ride itself) and once they’d exchanged their Galleons for pounds, they made their way without speaking down the crowded street, hands jammed into coat pockets and eyes fixed firmly ahead. Every witch and wizard in London must’ve decided to do their Christmas shopping today—thank Merlin Hogwarts hadn’t let out for the hols yet.

While she waited for Harry to tap the bricks that opened the passage to the Leaky Cauldron, she realized that he must’ve made their trip through the Alley easier by casting some sort of shield to keep the press and the fans from approaching. She gave him a grateful smile when he stood aside to let her go ahead into the pub. As much as she hated to admit it, the two of them walking together—Harry, especially—could’ve caused a riot if they’d been recognized.

“Where are we headed?” Harry asked as they dodged their way across Charing Cross Road toward Soho.

Ginny shrugged and answered without looking at him. “Dunno. Thought we’d go up to Oxford and see what strikes our fancy.” At Harry’s murmured agreement, she headed off, leaving him to follow in her wake.

The snow flurries at Mrs. Tonks’s hadn’t made it to London, but the textured slate sky was spitting a fine mist that held the threat of icy rain, making Ginny glad she’d grabbed her hooded trench coat with the water repelling charm. Harry’s glasses and black leather bomber jacket probably had similar magical protections, but his hair was soon sparkling with moisture that he didn’t seem to notice. Without her permission, her eyes kept drifting toward him, mesmerized by the way the dampness made the dark strands curl against his neck. She wondered how often over the years he’d ignored the elements and risked his health in his pursuit of Dark wizards, then she quickly doused the ember of worry that ignited in her gut. No sense dwelling on things she couldn’t control. 

They navigated through the maze of narrow streets, making stiff conversation only when something in a shop window caught their attention. Ginny found the silence unsettling, but Harry seemed caught up in his own head and she wasn’t about to try to draw him out. As they skirted Soho Square and cut the corner by Bloomsbury Publishing, he huffed and shook his head and muttered to himself. She just quickened her pace and left him to it. The trip would be a lot easier if he could decide exactly who he wanted to be today.

When they finally reached Oxford Street, Ginny came to an abrupt halt. Harry stepped up beside her and raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure about this?” He must’ve got it all sorted; he seemed like a different person.

She stared out at the surreal scene before them. The main Muggle London shopping district was worse than the Wizarding one with throngs of shoppers and cars and double-decker buses swirling around each other like a turbulent river between high-rise concrete banks. She might’ve even seen a flash of purple whipping through the melee.

“It’s only going to get worse the closer Christmas gets,” Ginny answered finally, then looked at him and smirked. “Scared?”

With an amused eye-roll, Harry grabbed her hand and headed into the crowd, then pulled up short and turned back to see why she wasn’t moving—she was too busy staring in shock at their joined hands. At her questioning look, he blushed, but didn’t let go. “Don’t want to lose you.” Ducking his head, he turned and plunged ahead, shouldering a path to the nearest shop window.

Dazed, Ginny allowed him to drag her along, willing her mind to stop twisting his words into something more than he’d meant. Of course it made sense to hold onto each other in this madness, otherwise they’d never stay together. And didn’t _that_ just send her imagination off on a tangent? She gritted her teeth and forced her brain into submission. If she were going to make it through this day, she’d best turn her mind off and simply go with the flow.

They jostled along in awkward silence, pretending to peruse the window displays. Well, Ginny, at least, felt awkward and was pretending. Conscious only of Harry’s rough, slightly sweaty hand (or maybe the sweat was hers), she couldn’t say what had been in any of the windows they’d passed and was only vaguely aware that they’d crossed onto the next block.

“So, erm…” Harry said as they paused in front of a shop selling mobile phones. Ginny shivered slightly at the sound of his voice, but he just tucked both of their hands into his jacket pocket and leaned toward the window to study one of the devices. “What did you have in mind? For your dad?”

“Oh, erm…” Her voice didn’t seem to want to work. What in Merlin’s name was he on about, acting like they were a real couple? She cleared her throat and tried again. “I don’t know. I thought I’d know when I saw it.”

Harry nodded toward the window display. “He mentioned, once, getting a mobile. Maybe we should check them out.” He grinned to himself then, apparently remembering the conversation. “Of course, we’d have to get one for your mum, too, so he’d have someone to call. Can’t you just see him trying to teach her how to use it?”

Ginny couldn’t contain her burst of laughter. They spent a good five minutes, giggling over imaginary conversations before going inside to inspect the various models. But while Ginny asked the clerk loads of questions, Harry mostly just hung back and listened. Finally deciding that they’d look around some more and come back if they didn’t find anything they liked better, they plunged back into the madness on the pavement. She squashed the thrill that ran through her when he took her hand again. _It doesn’t mean anything!_

“Why didn’t you ask any questions in there?” she asked, mostly to get her mind off the way his thumb was rubbing across her knuckles.

He shrugged. “I don’t know much about shopping. I usually send Kreacher or pay Fleur to do it for me.”

“What? They’re unavailable so you’re going to make me do all the work?”

He grinned. “Of course. Why do you think I brought you along?”

Ginny gave him a not-so-playful punch. “Git! You didn’t bring me along. You tricked me into bringing you!”

“Ow!” He laughed, ducking away from her second and third punches, but holding tightly to her hand, probably so she couldn’t use it to slap him. “Stop! Wait! Listen, maybe you can teach me.”

She froze mid-punch, offering him a wicked smirk instead. “What a brilliant idea!” Eyes wide with something close to fear, he loosened his grip on her hand and she jerked it away to cross her arms. “Where’s your list, Potter?”

“List?” He took a step back.

She followed. “Your Christmas list. What are you thinking of getting everyone? What presents have you bought? Who do you have left to buy for?”

“Erm…”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. I remember now. You haven’t even thought about it. Let’s go.” Locking a tight hand on his wrist, she dragged him toward the crossing. “John Lewis is a good place to start. They have some of everything.”

By the time she had them ensconced with hot chocolate at a table in _The Place to Eat_ on the top floor of the department store, Ginny was in full-on shopping mode. Harry looked terrified, as well he should. Next to Quidditch, shopping was her favorite sport and she might even be better at it than she was at Chasing. Mess her mind around, would he? Well, she’d show him!

She slapped a straw on the table in front of him. “I need a pen, Harry.”

“Ginny!” he hissed, looking around at the crush of Muggles within arm’s reach, most of whom seemed to be couples squabbling about china and cutlery patterns.

She bared her teeth in a feral grin, keeping her voice low but stern. “I need a pen and I can’t get my wand out without being obvious. If you’d done this at home, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

His wrist holster clicked softly as he pressed his lips together and moved the straw below the table. When he laid the pen in front of her, she beamed and pushed a paper napkin toward him. “Some proper paper, please.” With a huff, he complied. “Thank you,” she said. “Now! Let’s see…”

She spent the next half hour, and three more sheets of paper, making a list of everyone he needed to buy gifts for and badgering him to come up with ideas for what to get. Most of the items he chose for her brothers were magical and could be owl-ordered, but Ginny decided that her mother and the sisters-in-law would simply _love_ to receive cashmere jumpers or perhaps jewelry or maybe perfume. Which, of course, meant that Harry would have to spend considerable time browsing in the appropriate departments to decide on exactly the right gifts. And, naturally, they might have to go to several shops before they found the perfect ones. A proper penance if Ginny did say so herself.

But as she steered him out of the café with an arm wrapped around his limp bicep, she couldn’t help but take pity. He looked as if he’d resigned himself to taking another killing curse. “Since we’re here, we can start on this floor and look for something for Dad.”

Harry’s face brightened immediately at the vast display of televisions, computers, and other electronic devices. But when his eyes glazed over in a classic sign of shopping overload, she yanked on his arm. “Well, come on. We don’t have all day!”

More than an hour passed as they checked out the tellys and listened to music on headphones and inspected fancy cameras (some even took pictures that moved), then watched a couple of boys playing an extremely violent video game—something about stealing cars—until their mum called them away. With a sideways glance at each other, Harry and Ginny lunged for the controllers.

“Oh, Merlin, I’m rubbish at this,” Ginny grumbled as her on-screen player went down again in a gruesome blood bath. “How do you know what buttons to push and when to push them?”

Harry shrugged, never taking his eyes from the screen. “I used to sneak in to play Dudley’s computer when they left me home alone. But the games have come a long way since then.” He groaned as his man was blasted to nothing in an explosion, then pressed the button to begin again.

Ginny gave up trying to play and just savored the joy of seeing this rare side of Harry, his eyes flashing, his face contorted with concentration yet somehow relaxed. He looked like a kid turned loose in a toyshop for the first time… which probably wasn’t too far off the mark, now that she thought about it. Fury at his Muggle family ripped through her. What she wouldn’t give to Bat-Bogey them from both ends.

“All right. That’s it. I’ve got to have one.”

Harry’s excited voice brought Ginny back from her fantasy. “Do you have a telly to play it on? Would it even work at Gr—your place?”

He frowned and Ginny could’ve slapped herself for killing his joy. Then, he broke into a blinding smile. “No, but Ron does. He would _love_ this! And I could play it with him. Check him off the list!”

Ginny had a feeling that Hermione would _not_ love it, but she couldn’t bring herself to dampen Harry’s giddy pride at selecting the perfect gift for his best mate. Shaking her head in exasperation, she had a hard time suppressing her grin while she waited for him to purchase the console and several games, then slip into the men’s to shrink the package to pocket size.

On their way to the escalators, they wandered through the sports equipment and tried out a strange contraption called an elliptical trainer. Harry joked about buying one for himself and Ginny’s dad so they could work off the weight from her mother’s cooking.

“That’s not a half bad idea, you know?” At Harry’s gobsmacked look, Ginny added, “Well, I doubt he’d use it for exercise, but I’m sure he’d get a kick out of it and it doesn’t need electricity, does it?”

“You get it for him,” Harry said. “I’ve decided I need to buy him a car.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped. “A car! Are you mad? Harry, that’s too much and besides, Mum’ll kill you!”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I know. But I’ve always felt bad about losing that old Ford Anglia. I thought I’d, you know, try to find one like it. Even if it doesn’t run, it’ll give him something to tinker with.”

Ginny had all she could do not to kiss him. Instead, she put her hands on her hips and pasted on a look of mock disapproval. “Well, don’t tell Mum I knew about this beforehand. She’ll have my arse for not talking you out of it.”

Harry’s grin became cheeky. “Brilliant! Now I can blackmail you into helping me find one.”

She gave him a shove toward the escalator. “Just for that, you prat, we’re headed to the lingerie department.”

His eyes widened in panic, then took on an impish glint. “Not if you can’t catch me.” And he took off, excusing himself past the people standing to the sides of the moving steps and leaving a mixture of amused grins and irritated scowls in his wake.

With a squeal, Ginny leaped after him, cursing the head start she’d allowed him with her startled hesitation. He managed to make it down almost two flights before she got within reach, but just as she went to grab him, he jumped the final steps and headed into the furniture department. Even though the crowds on this floor were slightly less dense, Ginny had to slow down as she followed him through the tight maze of sofas and chairs and tables into the area designated for bedroom furniture. The taller wardrobes and chests made it both harder and easier to stalk him, but when a couple with two small children blocked his path and nearly tripped him, Ginny saw her chance.

Sneaking down the next aisle over, she crouched at the end of a row of chests and peeked around the corner. Still distracted by the apologies with the young parents, he was looking over his shoulder as he drew near and never saw her when she tackled him onto the bed across the aisle.

“Some Auror you are,” she laughed as he groaned beneath her.

Before she could blink, he’d flipped her over and pinned her to the bed, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I could still get away.”

Ginny giggled and wrapped her legs around his. “Not if—” She froze at the sound of a throat clearing and looked upside down into the disapproving glare of the grey-haired shop clerk standing over them.

“May I help you?” the man intoned, sounding entirely too much like Snape.

Harry’s face was as red as Ginny’s felt, but he scrambled off the bed and helped her up with surprising dignity, then faced the clerk with a condescending smile that would’ve done a Malfoy proud. “No, thank you, Mr., erm…” —he glanced at the man’s nametag— “Chadwicke. We’re looking for something a bit firmer. But we’ll be sure to let you know if we find it.”

Mr. Chadwicke lifted one eyebrow. “Indeed. Please do.”

Ginny bit her lip until Mr. Chadwicke turned the corner at the end of the aisle, then exploded into helpless giggles. “Shhhh,” Harry whispered, suppressing his own laughter as he put an arm around her shoulders and led her back toward the escalator.

“Oh, Merlin,” she sputtered as they stepped onto the down stairway. “Didn’t he sound just like Snape?”

“Yes!” Harry hooted. “I _knew_ he sounded familiar!”

As she tried to still the pounding of her heart at the sudden realization that Harry had been laying on top of her… on a bed, Ginny’s mirth froze in her throat. Someone—a very bad someone—was staring at them from the railing of the furniture department as the stairs carried them beneath him to the floor below. “Harry! Look!”

Instantly alert, Harry followed her gaze, but the man was gone. “Who was it?”

“Jasper Jinks.”

“What, the Quidditch reporter?” Harry asked in an undertone, still scanning the floor above.

“I _know_ I saw him. He wasn’t even dressed like a Muggle.”

“Well, no one would probably notice in this crowd,” Harry said. “We should get out of here.”

“Yeah, but if I know Jasper, he’s probably already got far too many… interesting pictures.” Ginny’s stomach dropped as she realized what the scene they’d just left would look like on the front of the _Prophet_.

“Bloody buggering hell!” Harry muttered, apparently cottoning on. “All right. Let’s see if we can lure him into a deserted area and get that camera.” He shifted seamlessly into Auror Potter, intent on his mission.

“How did he even find us in Muggle London, especially in these crowds?” Ginny wondered quietly as they rounded the corner and stepped onto the escalator leading to the ground floor. “I know we would’ve seen him if he’d followed us from the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Good question,” Harry said, casting a nonchalant glance over his shoulder to be sure Jasper was still with them. Harry’s hand moved over her shoulders and down her back, then he casually drew his other hand down his own torso. “No tracking charms that I can tell without a wand.” He lifted his eyes overhead. “But I’ll bet he’s got one on— No! Don’t look up,” he murmured, turning a smile on her that nearly buckled her knees. “Just look at me and smile. That’s it. The beetle known as Rita Skeeter is flitting amongst the Christmas ornaments hanging from the ceiling.”

As Harry guided her off the stairs, Ginny glanced up and saw the light glint off an insect taking flight. “I really, _really_ hate that woman,” she said, just loud enough for Harry to hear. “Can we stun her?”

“I wish.” Harry steered them over to a display of fancy ink pens and pretended to show her one. “But it’s too risky here. Best case scenario, she transforms and the Obliviators have to deal with thousands of people; worst case, she drops to the floor as a beetle and gets squashed underfoot.”

“I think you have the cases reversed,” Ginny grumbled.

Harry gave her a wry smile that didn’t match the words he spoke next. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to shop for a few more minutes and work our way over to the exit.” He pulled her around to another display and cast an offhand look about, then gave her a smile and drew her along to the beauty department. “In fact, I think we’re going to have a look at the jewelry, maybe even buy something.” Ginny raised her eyebrows. Harry rolled his eyes. “Thought I’d get your Mum something and draw them in a bit to try to get a shot of what we’re buying. Catch two Snitches at once, yeah?”

Ginny leaned over, pretending to study a box of perfumed soaps to hide her warm face behind the curtain of her hair. “Yeah, good idea,” she said, picking up the box to show him.

He smiled and shook his head as if vetoing her gift suggestion, then took her hand to lead her over to look at a rack of silk scarves. “When we’re sure he’s still following, we’ll head outside and try to find a less populated area. Cavendish Square would work.” Ginny nodded at the name of the small park behind the shop.

“We’d better not walk too fast,” she said. “That fat lump’ll burst something trying to keep up.”

Harry laughed as if she’d made a naughty innuendo, then draped a jewel toned silk scarf around her neck. “That’s pretty. Do you like it?”

Ginny blushed, but nodded, unsure what to make of this role he’d assumed. Then the Bludger of understanding hit—she was seeing the undercover operative who’d learnt to blend into his surroundings. Disappointment burned in her chest. Had the whole day been just an act? How could she have been so stupid to fall for it? _No! Stop!_ It didn’t matter. Even if it was all a lie, this day had turned out to be the most perfect one she’d had in forever and she wasn’t going to do anything to mess it up. Playing the love-struck fool wouldn’t be any stretch at all.

Harry pulled the scarf from her neck, but didn’t put it back on the rack as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and meandered down an aisle lined with handbags. “I just saw him,” he murmured, picking up a hideous fuchsia faux leopard print purse. “Looks like he’s transfigured his camera into Omnioculars. But I guess that’s good. The Muggles probably think they’re regular binoculars and they aren’t paying any attention to the purple smoke.”

“Probably too distracted by the horrible orange and lavender robes. You’d think he’d at least have the sense to change them to red and green so he might be mistaken for someone playing Father Christmas. Put that thing down, Harry. It’s horrid!” Ginny said when she noticed he was still inspecting the ugly purse. She picked up a black-fringed Prada shoulder bag. “Now _this_ , I think Fleur would love. And if you get Hermione to do one of her expansion charms, it’ll be perfect for carrying everything Victoire and the baby need when they leave the house.”

Harry’s eyes lit like twin Lumos spells. “Really? Brilliant! We’ll take it!”

Ginny snorted. He hadn’t even checked the price. “Anything to get through the list, yeah?”

Harry grinned. “Works for me.”

With a shake of her head, Ginny tugged him into the jewelry department. They wandered among the glass cases for several minutes, idly pointing out things that caught their attention and spending far too many agonizing minutes admiring engagement rings while Jasper lurked behind the handbags, a thick purple cloud roiling over his head.

“What do you think about these for your mum?” Harry pointed to an exquisite pair of sapphire earrings.

“I think you shouldn’t get her something that costs twice Dad’s annual salary,” Ginny said with a wry grin.

Harry’s eyes widened when he looked at the price sticker. “Oh, erm… yeah. Good point.”

Ginny giggled. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We have a couple of reporters to trap.”

Harry paid for his purchases and, while Ginny stood guard, ducked into a shadowed corner to shrink the bag. When he emerged, he wrapped the scarf around her neck again and just stared at her for a moment or two, as if he were memorizing her face. Ginny’s whole body flamed under the scrutiny before she could think straight enough to remember that it was all an act.

Dusk had begun to settle in the concrete canyon and the Muggle version of magic had turned it into a glowing wonderland. Harry and Ginny strolled down the side of the shop, away from the thick of the even larger throng of shoppers and the brightest of the lights. They stopped several times, seemingly to admire a window display but actually to use the reflection in the glass to be sure Jasper and Rita were still with them.

Harry wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his attentions becoming more ardent as they walked—a hug here, a kiss on the temple there, and frequent looks that could only be interpreted as longing. Ginny set up a mantra in her head: _it’s not real, it’s just for show, he’s setting the trap_. But somehow, her heart didn’t care. Real or not, she wanted this… wanted him, and she’d play along, do whatever it took to keep it going for as long as possible.

“Once we get to the park, we’re going to need to give them the slip so we can get close without them realizing,” Harry said against her ear. Anyone looking would think he was whispering sweet nothings to her. Regardless, his breath on her skin had the same effect and sent a shiver down her spine. “I think we’ve baited the trap well enough that they’ll keep looking for us.”

Ah, yes. Jasper and Rita probably had more than enough flirtatious pictures to fill a month’s worth of newspapers, but Ginny had no doubt that at this point they’d continue the chase until they’d captured the _pièce de résistance_ —a full-blown kiss. Oh, Merlin, was that part of the plan? Was she going to get a real kiss? The way her heart suddenly tried to pound its way out of her chest, she wondered that he couldn’t hear it.

When they rounded the corner behind the shop, Harry turned to walk backwards, pulling her along with a smile as he picked up their pace. The barest flick of his eyes upward told her that Rita must be right overhead. “Fancy a walk in the square?” he asked with a smile that spoke volumes about what they might get up to in the shadows under the trees.

Not even trying to fight her answering thrill of desire, Ginny let it guide her coy response. “I don’t know. It’s awfully dark. You don’t think it’s too dangerous?”

He let his smile turn just the least bit wicked as he took her elbow to escort her across the street. “Depends on what you mean by dangerous.”

Merlin, he was good at this. How many other women had played this role with him? Ginny pushed the disturbing thoughts away. She didn’t have time for them right now.

As soon as their feet hit the pavement on the other side of the street, she pulled from his grasp, skipping backwards and laughing as she danced out of reach when he made a grab for her. “Looks like the danger is closer than I thought. I’d better make a run for it.” And she took off into the trees.

Harry feigned a moment of surprise, giving her a head start, then sprinted after her with a teasing growl. They ran like children into the shadows, circling trunks and dodging low-hanging branches as their laughter rang through the deepening night. Gasping for breath, Ginny rounded a corner and crashed into an invisible barrier that grunted. Before she could blink, she found herself beneath familiar silken folds, her back pressed against rough bark, a hand covering her mouth, and Harry’s face less than an inch from her nose.

Her laughter trailed off as she stared into his suddenly serious eyes. His hand fell away and their breaths mingled, hovering between them like unspoken wishes. Inhaling deeply, she savored his scent and his warmth, a potent mixture that stoked the desire that had been smoldering all day. As she lowered her eyes, her lashes fluttered against his cheek. So close. His lips were right there. Just a slight tilt. That’s all it would take to satisfy the maddening need...

She raised her eyes to his. He stared back, boring into her soul as his breath hit her lips in sharp bursts and his heart thumped madly in time with hers. Without warning, he withdrew, eyelids dropping, jaw muscles flexing—the internal battle had begun. If she didn’t make a move now, he’d be gone.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Please—”

He opened his eyes but looked away from her. “Listen!” The word was just a breath. With a soft click, he dropped his wand into his hand and pushed the tip through the edge of the cloak.

Suddenly remembering why they were here, Ginny became aware of the crunch of footsteps and the hiss of heated whispers. Rita must’ve returned to her human form. As the two reporters drew closer, Ginny could just make out the words of their argument.

“Got to be around here…”

“They’re gone. We’ve got enough…”

“No, I _want_ that kiss…”

Thank Merlin for Rita’s greediness. Harry tensed as two dark forms crept from behind the next tree.

“Can’t see a bloody thing,” Jasper muttered.

“Give me that. Can’t it see in the dark?” Rita snatched the Omnioculars from Jasper’s neck and held them to her face.

Harry pointed his wand and, without a sound, disintegrated the transfigured camera to dust. Rita’s banshee shriek echoed into the night.

Ginny barely heard Harry’s whispered “hang on” before he pulled her against him and squeezed them into space. When they landed in the foyer of Grimmauld Place, he kept his arm around her waist just a moment longer than was really necessary to allow her to get her balance, but then stepped quickly away, pulling off the cloak as he went.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Sorry, I... it was the first place I thought of.”

“It’s fine,” she said, then tried to lighten the mood. “I don’t reckon we could’ve stayed to Obliviate them?”

Harry snorted as he busied himself with folding up the cloak. “As much as I would’ve liked to, I don’t think we could get away with it. They’ll print something, but without the pictures, it’ll be no different than any of the other lies they’ve written.”

He grew quiet again and Ginny’s attention was caught by the well-lit entryway that was a soft green and blessedly free of house-elf ancestry and screaming portraits. She’d seen the house briefly when they’d passed through on the way to Ron and Hermione’s engagement party, but she’d been too focused on Harry at the time to pay attention. “You’ve spruced the house up a bit.”

Harry shrugged. “Actually, Kreacher and Fleur did. I’m not here much.”

At the sound of his name, Kreacher appeared on the steps leading up from the kitchen and bowed low to Harry. “Master Harry has come home. Should Kreacher prepare tea?”

Harry frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Kreacher is able to tend to his Master’s needs as well as to his assigned duties. Kreacher will know if he is needed elsewhere.”

Ginny watched in confusion as the two held a silent battle of wills. After a tense moment, Harry apparently gave in with a grimace, then raised his eyebrows at Ginny. “Tea?”

When she nodded, he turned to Kreacher. “We’ll take it in the sitting room.”

Kreacher gave Ginny a venomous look and muttered under his breath about blood traitors on his way back down stairs.

“I don’t think he likes me much,” she said, watching him go.

“Kreacher!” Harry called as the elf reached the bottom step. “Miss Weasley is my guest. You’ll treat her with respect. And use the best tea and biscuits.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher said with obvious reluctance, then disappeared into the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Harry said, motioning for Ginny to precede him up the stairs.

In the sitting room, he threw his jacket onto a side chair, then walked over to stare out of the windows. Ginny laid her coat over the arm of the sofa and warmed herself by the fire, toying with her scarf and wondering what she could do to bring back the carefree man who’d bought it for her.

Searching for some safe topic to draw him back out, she gazed about the room, taking in all of the changes. The glass-front cabinets bracketing the fireplace held photos and an interesting array of seemingly non-magical bric-a-brac. A well-worn, but comfortable-looking sofa and two arm chairs formed a cozy circle around a coffee table in front of the fire, and the front windows sparkled, giving a clear view of the less-than-sparkling neighborhood below.

“I always thought this place could look nice,” she said. “It’s so much better without the doxies and boggarts.”

Harry turned and looked around as if seeing the room for the first time, then dropped his gaze to the floor and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s all right.”

Well. That line of conversation wasn’t going to work.

As the awkward silence grew, Ginny moved over to study the tapestry of the Black family tree that had been meticulously cleaned and restored to its original glory. She smoothed a gentle finger over Sirius’s face. “You fixed it.”

Harry jerked his head up, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

Ginny ran her eyes over the names and gasped as she reached the bottom. “You left the Malfoys on! Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?”

Harry’s eyes grew hard for a moment, but his voice was gentle when he spoke. “Good or bad they’re his family. Family’s important.”

She nodded, her heart swelling with love. Harry had a greater capacity for forgiveness than anyone she’d ever known. She sighed. If only…

Kreacher arrived with the tea and set the tray on the coffee table.

“Go and tend to your other duties, Kreacher,” Harry commanded. “I’ll let you know when I need you again.”

Casting a curious look at Ginny, Kreacher bowed low. “As you wish, Master.” And then he was gone.

At Harry’s gesture, Ginny settled into the chair before the fire. He sat in the opposite chair and served the tea without speaking or looking at her. The clink of silver on china sounded unnaturally loud and Ginny’s mind raced for some casual way to break the deafening silence. Harry seemed oblivious to it, staring into his cup as if he were planning to dive in. She wanted so badly to touch him, comfort him, entice him to share his thoughts, but she knew the wrong move would only widen the chasm that had opened between them since that moment under the cloak.

That moment under the cloak…

She’d been so sure that he’d felt it too, the momentary magical bond. How could it have all gone wrong so quickly? What had she done? Should she ask? Should she beg for another chance? No. She’d known all along it could never last.

Setting her cup down and giving up all pretense of drinking her tea, she watched him openly, trying valiantly to dam the longing and need coursing through her veins. She had to leave. If she stayed another minute, she’d do something that might ruin it all, something that might drive him away permanently.

“I should go.”

Her words were no more than a strained whisper as she stood, but he jumped as if she’d shouted, slopping tea over his hand. With a muttered curse, he rattled the cup onto the table and put his burned finger in his mouth. Ginny made a move to try to help, then stopped, riveted by the lips wrapped around his knuckle. With an effort, she turned away and snatched her coat from the sofa.

“Thank you for the tea,” she said without looking at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the quiver in her voice. “…and for taking care of Jasper and Rita and for… everything She stepped quickly to the fireplace and reached for the Floo Powder.

“Ginny, wait.”

She stopped, but didn’t turn around. Her eyes were burning and she wasn’t sure she could manage another word without losing it altogether.

“I’m sorry.” He had stood and stepped a bit closer, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Today was… was… but I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry… I just… I can’t…”

And in a heartbeat, she was furious.

“No!” She whirled on him. Eyes wide, he stepped back. She followed, poking her finger into his chest. “No! You do NOT get to do this. Not again. Not without telling me why. Not without giving me a chance to... to...”

With a mighty push, she backed him against the wall and pounded his shoulder with the side of her fist. “You’ve never let me say it, so I’m telling you now. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I sent you away. I’m sorry I talked to Dean instead of you. And I’m sorry... no, that doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about sending your ring back the way I did.”

Watching her with troubled eyes, he shook his head and opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. She couldn’t stop now or she might never finish. “Damn it, Harry, I wasn’t myself! After the war and Greyback and losing Fred and nearly you… I know, I _know_ I should’ve talked to you, or Pomfrey, or _some_ body, but I just… I just couldn’t. My mind was so fucked up and the only time I felt halfway normal was when we were together and I couldn’t do _anything_ that might make you stop coming to see me.”

Without warning, her eyes filled with tears that she didn’t even try to keep from streaming down her face. “And then you disappeared. It was too much. I just… just… broke… went completely mental.”

“Ginny, I—”

“No! Let me finish!” A bit of her anger returned, giving her strength to push on. She backed away to cross her arms and give him a watery glare. “I can’t take anymore of this… this… this whatever this _thing_ is we’ve got going… acting like we’re friends one day, then like we’re both invisible the next, and kissing in between. It’s driving me completely barmy and I just can’t do it anymore!”

Tears welled again, but Ginny pressed on, the path she had to take suddenly as clear as if she’d planned it all along—even if it meant she’d be cutting out her own heart to do it. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin. “To be honest, Harry, I can’t do _just_ friends with you. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I lo—I care for you too much to settle for half measures… I want all or nothing. I’m asking you to give me another chance, to give _us_ another chance… but if you can’t…” She swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the knot that had risen to block her words. “If you can’t… well, I’ll understand, but… but I don’t think I can bear to see you every week at family dinners and such. I promised that I would never do anything to come between you and the family, and I’ll keep that promise, even…” She drew a deep breath and forced her voice to remain even. “…even if it means I have to leave. I get offers all the time from teams all over the world. You’ve had your time abroad. Maybe it’s my turn.”

Harry’s eyes opened in shock at this last bit, but his face was otherwise unreadable. He straightened against the wall but didn’t move any closer. “What I was…” His voice came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. “What I was _going_ say was that I can’t keep up the pretense of friendship any longer.”

She closed her eyes against the returning flood and bit the insides of her lips to keep her sob from escaping. This was it. He was going to send her away.

“What I was _going_ to say,” he continued, his voice becoming gravelly as if he, too, were holding back emotion, “was that I’m sorry for acting like a royal arsehole these past months. Yeah, I was angry when I left—furious, truth be told. But when I came back I was scared. Scared that I might hurt you again, or, if I’m honest, truly terrified at how much you could hurt me if I got too close. I couldn’t see any good coming from spending too much time with you and I really did try to keep my distance. But I just can’t help myself. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t stay away.”

Ginny’s eyes flew open and she was nearly sucked into the fathomless depths of stormy green.

“I was _going_ to say…” She had to lean forward and concentrate to make out his words. “I was going to _ask_ if you could forgive me.” His voice took on a tone of hope and something that sounded almost like awe. “Did you mean it? Are you really willing to give me another chance?”

Stunned, she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to do more than search his eyes for several long, aching moments. He hadn’t moved, but held himself tense, as if poised to flee. Or like he was waiting for something… permission, perhaps?

In a heartbeat, she was wrapped around him, moaning in relief as he devoured her mouth. This was more than a kiss. It was raw need in its most primal form. Lips and teeth and tongues and hands everywhere, tasting, caressing, pushing clothing away from heated skin.

“Ginny.” The word ripped from him in guttural worship.

“Upstairs,” she gasped between nips at his jaw.

Before she could draw another breath, the side of her thigh was pressed against a bed in what was likely Harry’s room, but Ginny honestly didn’t care if it was on the roof. She twisted enough to shove him back onto the soft mattress, then scrambled to straddle him, fumbling in frustration with his belt.

Harry groaned, then flipped her over as he’d done at the shop, only this time when his weight pressed her into the mattress, nothing separated them but a thin film of sweat. She arched into his mouth, which sucked greedily at her nipple, his hands roaming lower, his head following their path. And then he was there… _right there_ … and she lifted her hips, pressing into his heated breath, begging for more. She wanted to slow down, to savor the warm dance of his nimble tongue and pliant lips, but the wave had been building for too long and too soon she was crashing over the edge, screaming his name as she buried her hands in his hair, giving herself over to the endless spasms that set stars bursting behind her eyelids.

Still shuddering in the aftermath, she yanked on her handfuls of hair. “Now, Harry. I need you now!”

He’d barely lined himself up before she wrapped her legs around his thighs and drove him home. The stretch was painful—it had been far too long—but perfect. When he hesitated, his eyes all but oozing adoration and concern, she gave him a kick in the arse. “Move, damn it!”

And he did, his thrusts deep and nearly brutal in a crude coupling meant to purge years of frustration and fear and anger. Just exactly what she needed.

He didn’t last long, growling out her name as every muscle tensed and convulsed for an eternity. When he rolled away, panting harshly, she curled against him, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck and draping her arm and leg over his torso.

“Merlin!” he murmured, swiping sweaty hair from his eyes before wrapping both arms around her. “That was…” After a moment, he apparently gave up looking for the right word and tipped her face up for a long, slow, passionate kiss.

When the need for air broke them apart, Ginny dropped her head back on the pillow and gave him a bright smile. “Yeah. It was.”

He grinned for a moment, but then grew serious. “I reckon we have a lot to talk about.”

“Yeah,” she said, but the word was broken by a yawn. Sleepless nights, emotional turmoil, and physical exertion were finally taking their toll. “But I think…” —she had to stop for another jaw-cracking yawn— “I think I need a nap first.”

Harry chuckled and gathered her against his chest, stroking her hair with one hand and caressing her hip with the other. “Go on, then. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And almost before she had finished sucking a light kiss onto his neck, the world faded to black.


	52. Making it work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happily ever after turns out to be hard work.

Harry slept little, afraid he’d wake to find himself in some godforsaken hellhole where he’d done nothing more than dream this wonderful, miraculous day. Instead, he lay quietly, listening to Ginny breathe, letting the soft tha-thump of her heart against his chest lull him into a peace he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

Rubbing his nose against her silky hair, he inhaled deeply and filled his senses with the honeyed floral fragrance that could make him drunk for days. She stirred in her sleep, and he ran a soothing hand down her back, molding her more tightly against him. Merlin, her skin was soft. But he refused to let his hands to wander too much—she obviously needed to sleep and he didn’t want to make a move that might remind her of all the reasons she should push him away. But he did give his eyes permission to roam at will.

Grateful that they hadn’t bothered pulling the blankets over them, he cast a silent warming charm and Summoned his glasses so he could take his time studying the creamy freckle-dusted skin clinging to him like spider silk. Her body was achingly familiar, yet different… more rounded and soft, more womanly than he remembered, yet still lean and taut. And there! There it was, peeking from the curve of her hip, the strawberry birthmark that looked like puckered lips begging to be kissed. His mouth watered at the invitation. It was the first place he’d start on his quest to taste every inch of her. 

Harry breathed in another lungful of her flowery scent and held it a moment before heaving a sigh from the depth of his soul. Did she know what power she held over him? Two years apart hadn’t diminished that in the slightest. From the moment he’d seen her at his homecoming party at the Burrow, he’d fallen back under her spell as if he’d never been away. But this… he’d completely forgotten this explosion of emotion, this overwhelming sense of completion, as if his body, heart, and soul had finally found the home they’d been seeking.

Oh, he was so buggered.

He’d never intended to be here again. This morning, when she’d opened the door at Mrs. Tonks’s, he should’ve Disapparated on the spot. But once he’d invited himself to go shopping and convinced himself that it couldn’t hurt to relax just a bit while they were surrounded by Muggles, he should’ve realized the final battle was lost. His resistance at the very end—hell, from the very beginning—was laughable. The instant he set foot back in England his fate had been sealed. But now that his surrender was complete, he had no intention of escaping, not unless she banished him once and for all… in which case, he might literally vanish.

The inevitable knot of worry began to build in his chest. Anything this blissful couldn’t possibly last. His life just didn’t work like that. Even if Ginny didn’t wake up horrified and send him packing, they’d still have to deal with the rest of the world sooner rather than later.

He couldn’t even begin to think about her family’s reaction. George, for one, wouldn’t make this easy. And the rest of them might have welcomed him back into the fold, but if they thought him a threat to Ginny, their open arms might reach for wands instead.

But even if the family accepted them as a couple, their worst challenge would be the press. Today’s encounter with Jinks and Skeeter had been just the start. Once word got out that he and Ginny really were together—if he even dared dream this was more than an unintentional one-off—the reporters would multiply like the cursed treasure in the Lestranges' vault.

In a burst of protectiveness, Harry wrapped her in his arms and rolled them over so his body covered but didn’t crush her. She wouldn’t appreciate his unconscious attempt to shield her from the coming storm, but he couldn’t help it. Now that she was his again—if that’s really what this was… or even if it wasn’t—he was determined to keep her safe.

She moved against him, and he grew still, hoping that he hadn’t wakened her, but at the moist whisper of lips at his throat, he slid down to offer his mouth to hers. With a quiet moan, she tangled her tongue with his and her fingers in his hair. After a bit, they ended the kiss with gentle nips. She pulled back to look into his eyes and smiled. “Hi.”

His grin stretched wide. “Hi.” He took his glasses off and tossed them over his shoulder toward the night table. This close, he didn’t really need them to see her face and they might get in the way… if things went the way he hoped.

Her fingers threaded through his hair and down his neck, leaving a trail of gooseflesh. “So, not a dream, then,” she whispered, a look of wonder making the gold flecks in her eyes seem to glow.

“Better than a dream,” he whispered back, awe and desire roaring in his veins.

But then her brows dipped and worry flickered across her face. “But is it real?”

He kissed away the tiny crease of concern and dropped his forehead to hers. He had no doubt what she was asking. “It’s real. I’m not going anywhere.”

He felt the worry crease reappear. “But why, Harry? Why did you fight so hard?”

His stomach plunged. So they were already there, the moment of truth. Unable to bear her searching look any longer, he closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. How could he explain what had been going through his head for months… years, even? It had all made so much sense at the time, but now he wasn’t sure he could sort through it himself, much less make her understand.

He turned his head to look at her. She had pulled the pillow down under her cheek and lay watching him, waiting. When his eyes drifted without permission to the pale mounds only partially covered by her arm, he immediately Summoned the blanket from the foot of the bed to cover them. She failed to completely hide a wicked little smirk, but he forced his eyes upward again—as much as he was tempted to delay the inevitable, now was not the time to get distracted.

“When I left,” he began quietly, “I couldn’t get rid of that image of you standing like a ghost on the stairs, begging me and George not to fight. I couldn’t bear the thought of what I’d done to you—” When she started to protest, he pressed a finger to her lips. “Let me say this before I lose my nerve.” She nodded and he dropped his hand away but remained on his side so he could watch her face. They were no longer touching—he wondered what that meant—but he couldn’t close the distance or he’d be too tempted to make promises he couldn’t keep.

“When I came back, you can’t imagine how surprised I was that you and your family had forgiven me and, even more, that you seemed to want me back. I never expected that in a million years. But I couldn’t forget what I’d done in the first place.” When her expression turned confused, he hurried on, rushing to get it all out. “You’d made me promise to tell you when I would be in danger and I broke that promise straight away. I honestly didn’t expect that particular meeting to turn into such a disaster, but I was stupid to make such a promise in the first place. I can’t predict from one minute to the next what might happen. Things can turn dangerous in the blink of an eye.” He paused when she closed her eyes to hide the flash of fear in them.

His gut churned. As much as he hated seeing her reaction, he had to do this. They could never make a go of it if she didn’t understand exactly what she was getting into—if, that is, she hadn’t changed her mind already. Steeling himself against the temptation to pull her close, he continued. “You were quite clear that day in the Room of Requirement. You said you couldn’t handle the danger I was in as an Auror. Ginny, I…”

She was watching him again, the furrow between her brows deep and her eyes full of concern. But this might be the only chance he’d ever have to say it. “Ginny, I love you. I love you… but I can’t walk away. Too much is at stake. If Dolohov’s allowed to gain a foothold in Britain, or secure even more of the Continent, our whole way of life could be destroyed. Riddle was evil and completely insane. Dolohov’s evil, but he’s more cunning. And going after him means that I’ll be in danger because, when the time comes, I’m not sending someone else to face off with him.”

Her face went deathly pale as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Using every ounce of his willpower to resist the urge to gather her into his arms, he rolled onto his back to put more distance between them. This choice had to be hers. “That’s why I fought this so hard. I can’t do that to you again, Gin. I _won’t_ do it again.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. As the silence stretched, he threw his arm across his eyes and resigned himself to the inevitable. His moment of bliss was over.

***

Ginny wanted to cry. Harry’s words had summoned every last one of her demons, and from his reaction, she’d done a piss poor job of hiding it. He might have said he wasn’t going anywhere, but if he thought she would fall apart again, he’d be gone in a heartbeat. She had better say something, and fast, or she’d lose what was likely her final chance with him.

“Harry,” she whispered. When he didn’t move, she stroked his arm. “Harry, look at me. Please.”

As he reluctantly uncovered his face and tilted his head just enough to see her, the candlelight glinted off the charmed Galleon at his neck, reinforcing his words and making her want to scream, _Why?_ _Why does it have to be you?_ But she didn’t dare say it out loud. She knew what he’d say and what he’d do and right now she had to convince him to stay so they could fight through those demons together.

“Harry, my… illness… it wasn’t your fault.”

He pressed his lips together and looked back at the dark canopy overhead.

“It wasn’t,” she insisted, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “Like I told you downstairs, it was my fault for taking on too much, for not dealing with it sooner. But I’m better now.” Well, that much was true. She wasn’t completely free of her terrors, but she was worlds away from where she had been when he’d left. “The recent attacks… yeah, they set me back a bit, but I’ve been working with a Mind Healer and it’s better. _I’m_ better.” He still wouldn’t look at her, so she pushed up on her elbow and leaned over him. “Harry, please. I… I’m not going to just let it go this time. And I don’t want to let you go, either.”

He did look at her then, his eyes searching hers, like he wasn’t sure if he could believe her.

She forced the anxiety from her mind and allowed only hope to show on her face. “Please. I want us to try again.”

And then, finally… _finally_ , after a heart-stopping eternity, he left off his searching and rolled over, skimming his fingers over her cheek on their way to burying themselves in her hair and pulling her close for a gentle kiss. Not the soul-branding fire of earlier, but a gentle claiming of lips and heart that melted the little mound of ice that had started forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Are you sure?” he murmured against her mouth, then leaned back to look into her eyes again. His vivid bottle green had narrowed to a small ring surrounding deep, dark pools of emotion. Drowning as she was in their depths, she almost missed his next words. “It won’t be easy, you know. Today was just the start.”

Today. Reporters. She’d almost forgotten. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Harry’s withdrawal was immediate and more than physical as he apparently misinterpreted her response and rolled onto his back again.

_Oh, no you don’t!_

Before he’d got fully settled, she was on top of him, straddling his hips, carding her fingers through his hair, pressing kisses along his jaw to his mouth. His hands cupped her breasts, calloused thumbs rubbing circles around her nipples in an achingly familiar pattern. The kiss heated, and for endless minutes their conversation was silent, lips and hands getting reacquainted with secret places that drew gasps and moans and incoherent pleas until they reached a crescendo that sent Ginny’s heart soaring. How could she ever have willingly given this up?

As they snuggled together, catching their breaths and exchanging nipping kisses, Ginny’s stomach gave a mighty roar.

Harry chuckled. “Erm… are you trying to tell me something?”

“No?” She grimaced at the questioning tone, but quickly whimpered and clutched at him when he began to untangle himself from her and the blanket. “Don’t go.”

He pushed her back into the pillows with a kiss that melted her mind and body into a puddle, and then, almost before she realized he’d broken contact, he was off the bed pulling on his jeans. Desire sparked at every nerve ending when she realized that he hadn’t put on boxers first—Merlin, did he do that every day?—but she shook away the distraction and did her best to maintain her pout as she sat up and crossed her arms, deliberately putting her assets on display.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

“Oh, erm…” Appropriately distracted, he paused with his second foot halfway into the leg of his jeans and nearly toppled over before catching himself on the bedpost. He struggled to push his foot through the leg opening then, with a little jump, finally got the stupid jeans pulled up. As he fastened them, he leaned over to drop a kiss on her mouth and one on top of each mound of skin above her arms. “Can’t have you passing out from starvation, can we? You’ll need your strength for later, yeah?”

“What? You’re going down to the kitchen? Now? Why not just call Kreacher?”

Harry frowned. “Do you really want Kreacher to see you like that?” When her face flamed, he smirked. “I didn’t think so. I don’t want him to, either. Or anyone else, for that matter.” Ginny’s heart fluttered even as jealousy stabbed through it—who else, besides Katya, had seen _him_ in all his glory?

“So,” Harry’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Are you staying here to rest up for later?” He waggled he eyebrows comically. “Or are you coming down to watch the master chef at work?”

“You can cook?” Ginny got out of bed and bent over to pick Harry’s t-shirt off the floor. When she pulled her head through the neck hole, she found him goggling at her, glasses askew on his face. She giggled at his disappointed scowl when she pulled the shirt down over her hips. She snapped her fingers at him. “Oi! Master chef!” He jerked his eyes up to hers. “Since when can you cook?”

With another regretful look at the hem of his shirt brushing her thighs, he sighed and held the door for her to pass through, then followed her down the stairs. “That’s about the only good thing I got out of living with the Dursleys. I can put together a halfway decent meal.”

While he cooked, they talked about Ginny’s start with the Harpies and the places Harry had traveled and a host of other “safe” topics, always skirting the touchy things that Ginny knew they’d eventually have to face. But for now, she needed the joy of just being with him, of watching the muscles ripple across his bare back as he worked, of basking in the happy and seductive smiles he sent her way every few minutes, and the frequent touches and kisses and hugs they shared as they moved around each other while she “helped.” Oh, how she’d dreamed of this intimacy, this contentment. What she wouldn’t give to be able to stay right here with him and never have to face the rest of the world again.

The food was simple but delicious, and provided as much entertainment as nourishment. She was never again going to be able to eat bangers and mash with a straight face… or dry knickers.

Once they’d gone back upstairs and entwined like vines on the bed, Harry popped her little bubble of bliss. “So, where do we go from here? Things are going to go mad once this gets out.”

Ginny blew out a sharp breath and pushed her head off of his shoulder so she could see his face. “Can we just stay here? Never go out again?”

He smiled. “Don’t I wish! But I think that would be a bit hard to explain to your family. And Gwenog. And Robards. And the Minister.”

With a huff, she flopped back onto the pillow. “I know. I just hate that we even have to _think_ about the press. Don’t look like that,” she cut in when he frowned. “I learnt to handle them a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean that I like it.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“But seriously…” She pushed back up onto her elbow so she could look into his eyes. “Can we keep this a secret, just for a little while? You’re right—once this gets out, we’ll hardly have any peace.” She searched his face for a moment, then cupped his cheek and kissed him as if she were pouring her entire being into him. “I’ve missed you so much. I want to keep you to myself for a while. Get to know you before they start trying to tear us apart again.”

She could read in Harry’s eyes the memories of the way the whole world seemed to believe it had a right to their privacy and took every opportunity to distribute rumors and lies to make their lives hell. He gave her a sad smile. “Yeah, they will, won’t they? But what about your family?”

Ginny grimaced a bit. “I don’t want to tell them yet, either.” At Harry’s raised eyebrows, she sighed. “As much as I love them, and I know they love me… us… I just don’t feel like having to deal with their… _love_ just yet. Mum’ll be planning a wed—erm, making plans, and George… well, George will be George, and the rest of them…” She fell back onto the pillow with a groan. “I don’t really have to explain this to you, do I?”

Harry smiled and rolled over to kiss her temple. “No. And, you’re right. We should take some time to get reacquainted. But you know we’ll have to pretend that nothing’s changed, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ginny sighed. “We’ll definitely have to go about our usual business. But keeping up that dance we’ve been doing around each other in front of the family will be hard. You’ll just have to do that acting thing you did yesterday for Jinks and Skeeter.”

“That?” Harry smirked. “That was no act. That was me letting myself do what I’d been putting on an act to _hide_ since I got back.” He kissed her. “Felt bloody wonderful, too. Going back to the other will be torture now. Maybe I should just get caught up in work and stay away?”

Ginny snorted. “Right. Hermione would _never_ pick up on that. Besides, you’ve been friendlier lately. Maybe she won’t notice that things have really changed?”

“Dream on,” Harry said with a laugh. “I’m going to have to work out a way to get out of our Friday night dinner, too. Coming up with a believable excuse is going to be nearly impossible.”

Ginny stroked her fingers through his hair and gave him a kiss. “You’ll think of something.”

He returned the kiss… several times. “Not right now, though. I’ve got other things on my mind,” he murmured, tossing his glasses back onto the night table and leaving a trail with his lips down to her birthmark.

***

Harry rose slowly back to consciousness, blinking into the grey morning light creeping through the crack in the curtains at the window. Even though he couldn’t have got more than three hours of sleep, he couldn’t remember ever feeling more rested and relaxed, utterly boneless… well, except for maybe that one part of him, nestled in the cleft of her cute little bum, that felt like nothing _but_ bone. He couldn’t help tightening his arm around her waist just a bit, aligning himself more securely against her, but being careful not to wake her. She looked so beautiful, so peaceful. He wished they could stay right here, just like this, forever.

Unfortunately, he was going to have to get up soon. Aside from the fact that he really needed to piss, he also needed to put in an appearance at the Ministry and the Austrian Field Headquarters, at the very least. And Ginny was planning to go and visit the children later. His mind was drifting through their plans for keeping the world ignorant when Ginny hummed a sleepy good morning and wiggled against him, banishing every thought from his head.

Some time later he forced himself up to shower and by the time he was dressed, Ginny had burrowed so far into her nest of blankets that only a tangle of fiery hair was visible. Harry stared in wonder, a goofy grin on his face as he snapped his wand into his holster. She was really here. In _his_ bed. Curled around _his_ pillow. _Merlin_ , he hated to leave her. But he needed to go. He was late already and if he didn’t get moving he might not go at all. How was he ever going to get through the day?

Leaning over, he dropped a kiss atop her head and stole a last whiff of her intoxicating scent, but before he could straighten, she pulled down the blanket and tilted her face for a proper kiss. He obliged—more than obliged, his kiss morphing from ‘goodbye’ to ‘hello’ with lightning speed. When she gave his shoulder a little push, he growled a protest and plunged his fingers into her hair so he could shift his lips to her jaw and trail kisses down her neck. God, she tasted so _sweet_! Just like the irresistible flowery scent that drew him like a honeybee.

“You need to go,” she whispered.

Harry found it hard to listen when she angled her head to give him better access. “Don’t want to,” he murmured against her throat.

Whimpering, she arched into his other hand that had wormed its way beneath the blanket. Her voice came in strangled spurts. “Don’t… want you to… either… but…” He quickly moved his mouth to swallow her words until she shoved a little harder on his chest. “Harry,” she gasped as he latched onto the soft skin below her ear and danced his fingers over her most sensitive place. “Her—Hermione… looking… for you.”

Ginny was right. Hermione really would come looking if he didn’t get moving, but how could he stop now when Ginny was making those delightful little panting noises in the back of her throat and squirming frantically against his hand? He refused to leave her hanging.

She mewled and arched and clenched her thighs around his hand, then collapsed panting back into the blankets and pillows. Harry gave her a tender kiss on the lips and on the forehead.

She grabbed his arm as he straightened. “I can help you with that,” she said in a hoarse whisper, nodding at his obvious erection.

He pushed away the temptation. “I’m late, remember?”

She poked out her bottom lip, reminding him of how Summers’s girl had done at the pub… was it really _weeks_ ago? Harry had thought the pout silly then, but _now_ he saw the appeal and bent down to take a taste. Yes, very nice, indeed.

Before Ginny could entice him further, he straightened again and stepped back. “I really do need to go if we’re going to keep this secret.”

Her sigh sounded like it came from her toes. “I know.”

“You’ll be here when I get back?” Damn, he hadn’t meant to sound so needy.

She snuggled back around his pillow and nodded. “Don’t be late, yeah?”

“Like I am now?” he said with a cheeky grin.

She nodded around a yawn. Harry forced his feet to start moving toward the door, although he kept facing the bed where Ginny was already drifting off again. He wanted to brand the picture onto his brain, just in case she came to her senses while he was gone and this did turn out to be a surreal one-off.

When Harry reached the kitchen, he took a few moments to dig deep within himself. Nearly six months had passed since he’d last used the undercover skills honed to keep him alive during his years on the continent. The acting he'd done for the family over the past couple of months was nothing compared to the submersion required of spy missions, and even though this wasn’t a life-or-death situation, he was going to need every one of those intensive techniques to hide his giddy happiness from the world. He and Ginny _needed_ this time for themselves; he simply _had_ to make sure everyone believed nothing had changed.

His biggest challenges were going to be Ron, Hermione, and Summers. They knew him better than anyone and were keen enough observers to pick up on even the smallest slip. But Ron would be in training, and Harry could avoid spending too much time with either Hermione or Summers if he went to visit all of the field bases. That might be the best excuse for missing supper tonight, too.

So… who should he be today? Hermione had sent him away yesterday because he’d been fairly volatile about the disappearance of the Austrian village. He still wasn’t happy about it, but his day away should have calmed him somewhat… that meant grouchy and determined, like he was keeping his temper on a tight rein, would probably work. Now he just had to get his mouth to understand that goofy grins were not part of the act.

Grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table, he set his face into a stern mask and Flooed to the Ministry.

Hermione was sitting at the conference table with her face in a book when Harry strode into the office. He grumbled a short “Morning” and turned his back on her to pour a mug of coffee from the urn on the credenza just inside the door.

“You’re late.”

“Your point?” he snarled, throwing a glare over his shoulder for good measure. So far, so good, but he was still struggling to keep his thoughts from straying to the image of Ginny curled in his bed. Keeping his movements sharp, he moved his mug to his desk and started flipping through his post, casting only the briefest glance at Hermione’s book. “Find anything?” It came out as a tight bark. Good.

Before she could respond, Summers sauntered in and flopped into the chair in front of Harry’s desk.

“You’re late,” Harry growled, ignoring Hermione’s exasperated huff.

“Your point?” Summers asked with a cheeky grin, then tipped his head back to look at Hermione nearly upside down. “Find anything?”

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she dropped her book open on the table with a bit more force than necessary. “As a matter of fact, I think I have.”

Harry’s mind instantly snapped to attention. He and Summers converged to look at the book over Hermione’s shoulders. She cast an inexplicable glare at Summers, who threw a surprised glance at Harry, who scowled as he scalded his tongue on his first sip of hot coffee.

For reasons Harry didn’t understand, Hermione gave an irritated shake of her head before launching into her explanation. “Because we were able to inspect the cloaking spells on the Austrian village before they had time to become fully integrated,” she said, “I’ve determined that they are most likely generated by a talisman. Or, rather, a network of talismans that interact to create a sort of woven dome over the village—like a net weighted down around the edges.”

“Looks like it should have some weak points, then,” Harry said, scanning the diagram in the book on the table.

Hermione tapped her chin with a frown. “Or it could mean that using multiple talismans would reinforce it considerably.”

Harry set his mug down and pulled the book closer. “But if it was going to have a weak point, where would it be?”

Summers leaned between Harry and Hermione to tap the top of the glowing dome of crisscrossed lines. “There, most likely.”

“Possibly,” Hermione said. “Or it could be around the bottom at the halfway point between talismans. And I’m not even completely certain that this is what they’re using. They could have based whatever it is on something like this, but strengthened it by layering several types of cloaking spells over or under it. We’ll need to run a few tests to know for sure.”

“How do we do that?” Harry asked, and for the next hour, Hermione gave him and Summers a detailed tutorial on analysis techniques for more than half a dozen different types of cloaking spells. Paying attention to a Hermione-lecture proved more difficult than usual since Harry’s mind had much more thrilling places to wander, but he gritted his teeth and made himself focus, especially with Summers watching him a little too closely for comfort.

“Okay,” Harry said when she seemed to be winding down. “We should go and get the teams started on these.”

Hermione shook her head. “I need to stay here today. I’ve several more things to look up and I want to talk to a couple of people in the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry sent a questioning look at Summers, who nodded his agreement to come along. “All right, then. We’ll get going. Listen,” he added as Hermione grabbed another book from the towering stack at the end of the table. “I’ll probably be late getting back tonight and I’m sure I won’t be fit company. Let’s just skip supper this week.”

He forced his face to remain passive when Hermione raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “Harry, we don’t mind waiting for you. I’ll want to hear how it goes today and, besides, it just won’t seem like Friday without you.”

Harry rolled his eyes in an effort at exasperation. “Hermione, the world won’t come to an end if we don’t get together tonight. You’ve worked late every night this week. Why don’t you and Ron just take this evening for yourselves? Make a date of it?” When her eyes lit up and she started chewing on her lip—a sure sign she liked that idea—he took one final shot. “And anyway, if the tests turn up anything interesting, I might just stay over at one of the bases. I can catch you up at the Weasleys’ on Sunday, if I don’t see you here tomorrow.”

Lip still caught between her teeth she frowned. Uh-oh. That last might have been overkill.

“I don’t know, Harry. If you find something interesting enough to stay—”

“I’ll let you know,” he cut her off before she got rolling. “Meanwhile, just… spend the evening with your husband. But don’t tell me any of the details, yeah?” he added with a mock scowl and a dramatic shudder.

Ten minutes and three Apparition jumps later, Harry was striding through the woods toward the makeshift camp outside the invisible Austrian village. Summers kept up without struggling, although his gait appeared relaxed.

“You know,” Summers said after a few moments, his voice casual and his eyes fixed straight ahead. “If you don’t want people knowing what you’ve been up to, you need to be sure to banish _all_ of the evidence.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “What in the bloody hell are you on about?” he grumbled, glaring at the ground to keep from showing his surprise and slight panic. He should’ve known Summers would catch on—they’d pulled off too many missions together not to know when the other was playing a role. But the bigger question was had Hermione noticed?

As if he’d read Harry’s thoughts, Summers smirked into the distance. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe. She thought it was me. Although I do think I deserve at least a pint or two for taking the blame, especially since I’m doing without right now while Val’s visiting her cousin in the States.”

Harry feigned confusion at that remark. “I repeat: What the bloody hell are you on about?”

Summers burst out laughing. “Finally getting laid really has muddled your brain, hasn’t it? What was one of the first things Ingalls taught us in the field, Potter? Use all _five_ senses.” He leaned toward Harry and took an exaggerated sniff before dropping his voice to a loud whisper. “I can smell her on you.”

Harry’s shocked intake of breath proved the point—the scent of Ginny’s arousal hit him full force. _Bollocks!_ Face flaming, he waved a freshening charm over himself while Summers cackled with glee.

“Shut up,” Harry muttered.

“I have to admit I’m surprised, though,” Summers said with a frown. “When Granger told you to do whatever you needed to do to get yourself under control, I never expected that you’d actually do it. Always thought you were a one-woman man.”

Harry’s stomach swooped, but he quickly cottoned on that Summers might know the ‘what’ but he hadn’t sussed out the ‘who.’ “You don’t think it’s time I moved on?” he growled.

“Oh, yeah. Past time. I just never thought you would. So who is she?”

Keeping the relief off his face took some effort. “What, you think you’re the only one who can pull at a pub?”

Summer snorted, flicking a quick glance toward Harry’s scar. “’Course not. But aren’t you worried she’ll sell you out to the papers?”

“She won’t,” Harry said, letting his ominous tone imply what measures he’d taken to be sure.

Summers’s eyebrows shot into his fringe “Bloody hell,” he murmured, his tone filled with horrified amazement. “You _Obliviated_ her?”

Harry just raised an eyebrow and stepped through the wards into the camp, glad for the excuse to end the conversation as the information barrage started.

Throughout the day, Harry found little time to think about much of anything but cloaking spells and casualty reports and intelligence missions and the conflict that was building in his gut. Being out here where people’s lives were at stake—both the captives in the villages and the Aurors who had left their homes and families to try to save them—reminded Harry of his purpose in taking up this mantle. He had responsibilities, damn it! What right did he have to indulge his desires while others were suffering?

Unfortunately, the growing guilt did nothing to stop his thoughts from straying at inopportune times or lessen his impatience to get back and indulge _Ginny’s_ desires… if she still wanted him to. Would she even be there when he returned? He was almost afraid to find out.

***  

Ginny cast another warming charm over the food on the two plates and continued her well-worn path around the sitting room.

He was late… or maybe not. They hadn’t really set a time. But she’d reasoned that Ron got out of his training classes at six and Hermione would probably stay at the office until he was finished, so Harry might have to stay as well to keep Hermione from getting suspicious. With that in mind, Ginny had started cooking at six, thinking that Harry might need a little extra time to make his excuse for ducking out of dinner believable. But she wouldn’t have minded a bit if he’d caught her cooking in his kitchen—her brain had taken that little fantasy and run with it, imagining him coming in to wrap his arms around her from behind, nicking a bit of whatever she was preparing at the moment, and then one thing leading to another and, well, they might not have bothered with a proper dinner at all.

Only he hadn’t got home while she was cooking. But that was okay. He wasn’t that late… yet. Brushing aside the tiny kernel of worry that was trying to take root in the back of her mind, she’d busied herself setting up the small table in the sitting room, which was much cozier and more romantic than the kitchen or dining room. And besides, this was where they’d finally got back together, where they’d shared their first _real_ kiss since his return.

She stopped pacing long enough to shift a wine goblet a fraction of an inch on the crisp linen tablecloth, even though the fine bone china and gleaming silverware and crystal candlesticks were just as perfect as they’d been for the past hour.

The grandfather clock in the library bonged eight times, and Ginny resumed her path in the opposite direction. He wasn’t _all_ that late. Maybe he always stayed at the office past eight. Or maybe he’d had to go to dinner with Ron and Hermione, after all, to keep them from getting suspicious. But surely he’d have sent word, wouldn’t he? Of course, he would. He’d have let her know if something had come up when he knew that she was waiting… wouldn’t he?

Unless he couldn’t.

The moment the thought formed, Ginny’s demons came out to play. She stopped in her tracks, clutching her elbows to ward away the chill seeping into her veins. What if something had happened to him?

Memories exploded in her brain—purple jets of light and crazed laughter and Harry tumbling through the air. Ginny’s heart and lungs froze, trapping blood and breath in a block of ice. Just last night, he’d said that, when the day came, he wouldn’t send anyone else to face Dolohov. What if today was the day? What if Harry was fighting for his life right this minute? Or was already injured or even…?

 _No,no,no,no!_ She couldn’t even think the word. It couldn’t be true. Not when they’d finally found each other again. Fate surely wouldn’t be that cruel. Ginny struggled to breathe as her knees gave way and she crumpled onto the ottoman beside her. Yes, Fate _could_ be that cruel. After all the wretched problems they’d faced since the war had ended, something happening to Harry now made absolutely perfect sense.

But if something had happened to him, would anyone even think to tell her? Or would she have to read it in the _Prophet_ like the rest of the Wizarding world? No, Hermione would let her know… wouldn’t she? Yes, of course, she would. But, then, Hermione wouldn’t know to look for Ginny _here_ , at Harry’s house, would she? Of course, not. This… _whatever_ it was between then, was a secret. And while Ginny waited here in vain for Harry to come back, Hermione was frantically searching to let her know that he wasn’t coming.

Before she realized she’d moved, Ginny was standing before the fireplace, bowl of Floo Powder in hand…

_Pop!_

At the soft sound from the entry hall, Ginny jerked to a stop, barely breathing as she listened, afraid to hope. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. She whirled to see Harry flash past, taking the stairs two at the time, all the way to the bedroom on the topmost floor, from the sound of it. He must be looking for her.

Relief left her reeling, unable to coordinate her mouth enough to call out to him. But in the next second, fury with herself roared to life. How could she have let her demons take control like that? She’d told Harry she was better and she’d meant it! She shouldn’t be falling apart just because he was a few minutes late.

The hurried thumps and banging doors of his search brought her back to the moment, prompting her to check her reflection in the mirror at the back of the glass front cabinet by the fireplace. Merlin, she couldn’t let him see her like this, the color of bleached parchment and just as flimsy—he’d leave and never look back. Drawing several deep breaths to calm her fluttering heart and hands, she swished her wand in a practiced sweep to reset her make-up and add a touch of color to her cheeks. By the time he hit the first floor landing again, she had stationed herself at the drawing room door, leaning against the jamb in a casual pose.

“Looking for someone?” She smirked as he skidded to a stop, eyes wild, hair even wilder.

Panting hard, he stared at her for a moment, then took a step forward but jerked to a stop just out of reach. “You’re here,” he said, sounding completely amazed by the fact.

Ginny’s brows lifted. He was worried? “I told you I would be.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice heavy with relief. He raked a hand through his hair and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, you did. Erm… sorry I’m late.”

His obvious nervousness made Ginny feel like her whole body was smiling. That uncertainty could mean only good things. But why was he still standing there fidgeting? She dropped her hands to her hips and leveled a mock glare at him. “So are you going to give me a proper hello or do I have to come and get it?”

Before she could blink, he had swept her into his arms and seemed to be trying to meld their lips into a single pair. But she wasn’t complaining. She could live the rest of her life on no other nourishment than Harry’s kiss.

“Missed you,” she whispered when Harry released her mouth to trail little nips across her jaw and bury his nose in her hair—he seemed to really enjoy doing that for some reason.

“Missed you, too,” he murmured, then drew back enough to look her in the eyes. “I’m really sorry about being so late. We got a bit of a break on the case and I had to go to several of the bases on the Continent and everyone seemed to need one thing after another and I just couldn’t—”

“Harry, it’s okay,” Ginny said, squeezing his waist and kissing his neck to punctuate her words. Every ounce of tension drained from his body as he gathered her close and gave her a kiss that spoke louder than words how serious his worries had been. It left her in wonder and more determined than ever not to give him anything more to be concerned about. He had enough in his cauldron already.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes focused beyond her shoulder and went wide. “You cooked.”

She gave him a playful swat and grabbed his hand to lead him to the table. “Of course, I cooked, you prat. Did you think I could grow up in a house with Molly Weasley and not learn how?”

She gently pushed him into a chair and went around to sit in her own, smirking at the flush on his cheeks and the way he suddenly seemed tongue-tied.

“No, I didn’t... it’s not... I knew...” He stopped and took in a deep breath before starting again. “I’m not surprised that you _can_ cook, just that you _did_. But it smells delicious and now I feel really rotten for being so late.” His stomach grumbled in agreement. “Sorry. I didn’t get to eat lunch today.”

Ginny gestured at his plate. “Well, go on, then. I’m sure it’s not as good as Mum’s, but it won’t poison you.”

She held her breath as he solemnly scooped a bite of chicken and ham pie into his mouth, then shook his head as he chewed and swallowed. “You’re right. Nothing like your mother’s.” Ginny’s stomach dropped and she chewed on her lip to keep from showing her disappointment. But when he spoke again, she felt as if she were flying. “It’s better,” he said, his eyes now twinkling. “Much better.”

Hiding her relieved sigh behind a brilliant smile, Ginny tucked into her own food. “Well, I guess some of Mum’s effort to turn me into a ‘right proper lady’ must’ve taken.”

Harry chuckled around another mouthful. “I think you turned out all right. You seem very lady-like to me.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Mum doesn’t think so. After six boys, she wanted to treat me like a little dress-up doll, and I wanted none of it. She finally gave up with the girlie clothes by the time I turned six, but she kept on with the ‘wife-and-mother’ training.” Realizing, too late, what she’d said, Ginny hurried on. “So while the boys got to do mostly outside chores, I got intense lessons in cleaning and cooking and laundry.”

Pausing between bites, Harry smiled. “So I guess she was pretty disappointed when you joined the Harpies, yeah?”

Ginny shook her head, more in amazement at the way he seemed to be inhaling his supper, but in answer, too. “Not disappointed. Concerned, I guess.”

“But, why?” Harry lowered his fork in disbelief, his focused attention making Ginny squirm a bit. “She didn’t think you could do it?”

“Oh, no. She knew I _could_ do it. She just didn’t think I _should_ do it.” _Uh, oh._ She had strayed into dangerous territory. This could lead to some of those difficult discussions they needed to have, but was their fledgling relationship strong enough to handle it yet?

Harry gave her a wry grin as he scraped up the last of his food. “What do you mean she didn’t think you should do it? Is Quidditch not an appropriate career choice for ‘proper ladies’?”

This was her way out, if she wanted it. She could turn the topic with a quip, or she could draw on her Gryffindor courage and get this discussion out of the way. She flicked a glance from beneath her lashes; Harry’s brows had dipped into little frown of confusion. She’d been quiet too long, and he was probably on to her now. Nothing for it but to plunge ahead. 

She concentrated on pushing her peas into a crowded, perfect circle. “No, Mum was worried because I, erm, wasn’t doing so well back then. Better than when you left,” she added quickly when his frown deepened, “but, yeah. Not really great.”

Harry reached across the table to take her hand. “I’m sor—”

Ginny snatched her hand away. “Don’t you dare apologize, Harry Potter! We already went through that, and I won’t have you apologizing every time it comes up. I was better. Much better. But I still didn’t want to deal with the press and they were only going to get worse once I left Hogwarts no matter what I decided to do.” When Harry opened his mouth to speak again, she glared him to silence. “I had planned to work at the shop with George so I could hide behind the wards there and at home, but then bloody Hermione had to go and find my offer letters.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Letter _sss_? As in more than one offer?”

Oh, bugger. She hadn’t meant to tell him that. “Yes,” she bit out, giving her peas a vicious stab and sending half of them off the edge of the plate.

“Well?” Harry asked when she didn’t continue. “How many? The Harpies, obviously, but which other teams?”

Ginny glowered at her runaway peas, then huffed in defeat. He could easily find out from Ron. Might as well spill the beans… or peas, as it were. She kept her eyes lowered as she vanished the mess and mumbled, “All of them.”

When Harry remained quiet, she looked up to find him gaping at her. “Hang on,” he said, voice full of wonder. “I know I missed a lot while I was on the continent. In fact, the only Quidditch news I got at all was when I accidentally saw the _Prophet_ article after your first game as a starter.” He smirked. “Blew my cover from the shock when I saw it.” Her stomach swooped, but he didn’t leave her time for questions. “Blimey, Gin! You got an offer from _every_ team in the league?”

When she gave him a wary nod, he jumped from his chair and snatched her into his arms for a brief but searing kiss. “I always knew you were brilliant,” he crowed. “I’m just glad everyone else finally saw it, too!” Then he let out a whoop of laughter. “I’ll bet Ron had kneazles when you didn’t go with the Cannons.”

Ginny giggled at his infectious enthusiasm and pushed him back onto the sofa so she could straddle his lap. “He literally begged me to, but even though it was a starting spot, the Harpies’ offer was better.”

“You mean Puddlemere didn’t make the best offer? They’re the richest team in the league!”

“Oh, they offered more money, but only a spot on the second reserve team. And if I remember correctly, the Cannons offered the lowest salary. I don’t know. George had it all worked out—he appointed himself my agent and negotiated a contract with the Harpies before I even decided to play.”

“But how did he even know to do that?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. This was going to go on all night if she didn’t just tell him the whole story straight away. “Gwenog saw me fly when she came to Hogwarts for one of Slughorn’s parties and tried to change my mind when I told her I wasn’t planning to play. She’s the one who told Ron and Hermione about my offer letter. Then Hermione found the rest of them and they got George involved and the three of them badgered me into signing because—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—I’d regret it if I didn’t. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t be playing at all.”

Harry gave her a squeeze and a quick kiss. “They were right. You would’ve regretted it.”

Ginny snorted. “Maybe so, but when I got to the training facility on the first day, I thought I’d made a horrendous mistake. I was ready to sick up just from nerves and intimidation. If Liam hadn’t popped in almost right on top of me just before I Disapparated, I never would’ve gone through the gates in the first place.”

Harry tightened his arms around her and scowled. “So, that’s how you met that wanker. He was all over you right from the start, was he? Just can’t keep his hands off you, can he?”

Ginny pushed out of Harry’s grasp to stand in front of him, arms crossed. “He’s not a wanker. He’s been nothing but a gentleman to me.”

“Right.” Harry’s voice dripped sarcasm as he rose from the sofa to loom over her. “That was _perfectly_ obvious from the way he was feeling you up in that stupid picture in the _Prophet_. And of course, groping you on the dance floor at the wedding is _exactly_ what any gentleman would do.”

Dropping her fists to her sides and taking several steps back so she wouldn’t hit him, Ginny ground her teeth and growled. “You’ve got a lot of _nerve_ talking about pictures in the newspaper and groping people at weddings. At least we weren’t naked!”

Harry blanched, then flushed and turned his face to glare at the fireplace. “You know you can’t believe what they print,” he bit out. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Oh, so you’re telling me you _didn’t_ have your hands all over a barely dressed woman while you licked out her lungs in front of a bloody _window_ , for Merlin’s sake? Liam and I were barely touching, and if the paper hadn’t cropped the picture you’d be able to see that he had his other arm around Kelby and the rest of the team was sitting at the table with us. Please _do_ explain how that picture of you and that Russian slut wasn’t what it seemed, not to mention the obscene way she was all over you at the wedding.” When Harry groaned and ran his fingers under his glasses to scrub at his eyes, Ginny crossed her arms again. “Well? Go on, then. I can’t _wait_ to hear this load of bollocks.”

Jabbing a hand into his hair, Harry paced away a few steps, then turned back and gave her a pleading look as he gestured to the sofa. “Sit? Please?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, but plopped onto the middle of the sofa, arms still crossed and scowl in place. When Harry sat down next to her, she moved to the end, daring him with her eyes to come any closer.

Defeated, he slumped over, resting his elbows on his knees and fisting handfuls of hair. She almost felt sorry for him… but not enough. The pain she’d felt when she’d seen those photos rose up, as fresh as when it had first struck, and even though she knew she’d eventually forgive him, right now, she needed to know he was feeling some pain, too.

When Harry finally spoke, his voice and his eyes were lowered. “She was providing me with an alibi.” Ginny snorted and he glared over his shoulder at her. “At least let me finish before you pass judgment.”

Chastened, but unwilling to show it, she huffed and waved her hand in a signal to continue.

Harry got up and went to lean his forearm on the mantle as he stared at the fire. “I had broken into the Russian Ministry to get some information on Dolohov. They didn’t catch me, but I was their primary suspect. Katya was there when they cornered me at a State dinner to take me away for questioning. I was as surprised as everyone else when she told them it couldn’t have been me because I’d spent the night with her. Hell, I’d just met her ten minutes earlier.”

Harry flicked a glance Ginny’s way. In spite of herself, she was intrigued by his story… even if she wasn’t yet sure how much she believed it. “So what did she want in return?”

Harry smirked, but it seemed to be more at whatever he was thinking than at her question. “She wanted me to stop Dolohov as a final gift for her dying grandmother.”

“But you were trying to do that anyway.”

“Yeah, but I still had the problem of the Ministry coming after me and, as I found out later, we both needed an alibi—she worked for the Ministry.”

Ginny couldn’t stop her snort this time. “As what, a whore?”

Harry’s gaze turned dead serious. “Actually yes… more or less. They ‘recruited’ her at age fourteen and trained her as a seductress and spy. She was their top agent.”

Gobsmacked, Ginny couldn’t come up with a scathing remark.

Harry carded his fingers through his hair again. “When they sent her after me, she told me what was going on and that they’d want pictures.” He heaved a sigh. “At the time, I was immersed in the mission, so we gave them pictures. I didn’t really think about how it would look later.” He took a couple of steps forward, palms up, pleading. “Gin, you’ve got to believe me. It never went any further than what you saw in the paper, I swear it.”

Ginny studied him without speaking, desperately wanting to believe him. But one more memory sprang up and screamed for attention. She stood and faced him, hands on her hips. “That’s not what your Russian slut told _me_.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What did she tell you? When?”

“At the wedding,” Ginny said, taking a threatening step forward. “She told me that I had no right to you anymore, that it was _her_ bed you came to for comfort. She even tried to make me believe that it was _your_ baby she’s carrying.”

Closing his eyes, Harry balled his fists and growled. “I’m going to kill her. I _told_ her to stay away from you.”

“Well, she didn’t. Was she right? Did you sleep with her?”

“No!” Harry yanked on his hair. “Not like that. It was just sleep. That’s all. Just… Hermione stopped sending news about you in her letters and I thought… I guess, I’d been hoping… up until then…” He stammered to a halt and turned toward the fireplace. “I wanted to… with Katya… and she was willing… so I thought… I thought it might help me forget… or something. But then I couldn’t. It just…” He turned around again, but backed a step away, shoulders slumped, head down, seemingly resigned to rejection. Ginny relaxed her stance and strained to hear his gravelly whisper. “How could I be with her when all I wanted was _you_?”

Before her feet had permission to move, Ginny was wrapped around him, murmuring soft reassurances. How could she not believe him… forgive him… when she’d done the same thing herself?

“It’s okay, Harry. I know… I know…” He lifted his face from her neck, questions in his eyes. She closed her eyes a moment and drew in a deep breath, then stepped out of his embrace to make her own confession. “I tried… with Liam, too. I thought I’d never see you again and… well, I tried to move on. But I couldn’t. I… I just wanted you.”

Her voice had dwindled to nothing by the end, but Harry seemed to understand. He clutched her to him in a heartbeat, pouring every ounce of his love into a kiss that set her soul on fire. They could do this! They really could get past the hard things and make it work.

The time finally came to breathe again and Ginny caught a glimpse of their dinner remains over Harry’s shoulder. “Did you get enough to eat?” she whispered.

He nuzzled her neck and hummed something that sounded like ‘oh, yes,’ then murmured, “Think I’m ready for afters,” as he trailed soft kisses over her jaw to her mouth.

Come morning, the treacle tart on the kitchen counter was still untouched.


	53. Too Good to Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They know they can't keep a secret like this for very long. Life is going to intrude eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has one very brief, fairly graphic description of the torture and death of a child in scene two.

“Are you okay?”

Ginny quickly laid her fork down to hide the way her hand had started shaking. Damn. Did Hermione suspect something? No one else at the Weasley Sunday gathering was paying any attention, but Hermione and George were definitely watching more closely than usual… weren’t they? They didn’t really suspect anything… did they?

Ginny had thought it would be easy to fool her family. All she had to do was keep acting like a love-struck fool, the way she’d been doing for the past four months. Easy-peasy, right?

Yeah, right. About as easy as keeping her hands off Harry. Oh, sweet Merlin’s saggy balls, her skin was positively on fire with the need to touch him, and no amount of casually rubbing her arms and thighs and neck could douse the flame. If she didn’t get herself under control, Mum would be pouring potions down her throat any minute.

“Ginny?” Or Hermione would be carting her off to St. Mungo’s.

Ginny gave her a quick grin. “I’m fine. Just… you know… the usual.” She let her eyes flick toward Harry, then back to Hermione, trying her best to look wistful.

With a sad little smile, Hermione gave her a gentle pat on the arm. “Yeah. I know.”

Ginny sighed with relief when someone down the table attracted Hermione’s attention before the conversation could go further. Bloody hell, keeping this charade up was hard work!

Of course, Harry made it look like a lazy fly around the pitch. She’d seen him in action on Thursday and knew he was very good, but he’d told her that being with people who knew him well made it more difficult. Ginny held back a snort. He looked so cool that ice wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Although, he did seem to be keeping his head turned away from her most of the time, so maybe it wasn’t really as easy as he was making it appear.

“Hey, Gin-bug!” She nearly jumped out of her skin when George called to her down the table. “Haven’t seen you round the past couple of days. Wha’cha gettin’ up to during the break?”

Oh, bloody hell! What if he’d put up a monitoring charm on her flat and knew she hadn’t been spending the night there? She struggled to school her face before leaning around Angelina to answer him. “Just doing some Christmas shopping, visiting the children, running errands. Trying to stay busy, you know.”

George cocked his head. She fought to keep her expression steady as he studied her. Merlin, did he know? He finally grinned. “Well, we could use a couple of extra hands downstairs if you get bored.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not sure I’ll get that bored. But, we’ll see.” Working in the shop with her eagle-eyed brother was the last thing she wanted to do, but it might throw him off the scent if she could manage it. She’d have to think about that a bit.

This was so much harder than she’d thought it would be. Her respect for Harry’s undercover work jumped tenfold. Of course, he’d been in life-or-death situations, so he’d had to become an expert, otherwise… No! She couldn’t go there. It would make her crazy.

What she’d really rather do was grab him and Apparate directly back to the bedroom at Grimmauld Place to pick up where they’d left off. Saturday had been glorious. Yeah, they’d made their obligatory late-morning appearances at the office and the children’s home, but the rest of the day had been spent mostly in bed, cuddling and talking about safe topics in between bouts of sex that ranged from feral to playful to languid.

Leaving him tangled in the sheets this morning had been agony. She knew it had to be that way—she always arrived early for the Sunday gathering; he always arrived late—but when she’d stopped by her flat for clean clothes (Was it too soon to move her things to his place?), the memory of black hair splashed over the ivory pillows and half-lidded green eyes watching her go had irritated and aroused her all at once.

So, it was actually his fault that she’d gone a bit overboard in following her usual pattern of dressing to make him take notice. Her pale rose cashmere jumper clung to every curve, offering more than just a hint of cleavage, and her grey flannel skirt hugged the swell of her hips and bum, flaring just at the tops of her thighs into a short ruffle designed to draw attention to the shadowed recesses it barely covered. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t be happy about the extra tease, so to make it up to him, she chose a skimpy fuchsia lace push-up bra and matching knickers for later, when he could peel the outer layers away.

Of course, when Ginny had walked into the kitchen at the Burrow, Mum had pursed her lips and shaken her head, but just handed over some potatoes to peel. Harry’s scowl, when he arrived, had been worth the effort—yes, she’d definitely pay later—but Percy’s raised eyebrow had been the only other reaction.

She risked a fleeting glance from beneath her lashes across the table and was surprised to find Harry looking back. He grimaced and looked away, but it seemed to be an effort. If she were feeling more confident in her own role, she might be tempted to test his acting skills.

Fortunately, before she could pursue that idea further, Hermione leaned over and whispered, “You’re staring again.”

Ginny flushed, imagining how she must look mooning at Harry as he talked Ministry politics with Dad and Percy. At least no one seemed to think it was unusual. And that thought deepened her flush. They likely thought her pathetic. Well, they’d know soon enough that she wasn’t. But for now she needed a distraction. “Have you decided what to get Audrey for Christmas?”

Surprisingly, Hermione allowed the topic change, and for the next few minutes they batted about gift ideas. “Do you have a free afternoon next week?” Hermione asked. “I’m going to take off one day to finish up my shopping and I thought we could ask Fleur if she needed us to pick up anything for her.”

“Oh, good idea,” Ginny said, eyeing their sister-in-law with a plate of food balanced precariously atop her swollen stomach as she reclined on a chaise that Bill had transfigured for her in the corner. With only three weeks until the baby was due, Fleur looked like she’d swallowed one of Hagrid’s pumpkins whole, but Ginny had to wonder if it was really as hard on her as she wanted everyone—especially Bill—to believe. Some days Ginny still thought of her as Phlegm. “You don’t suppose she’d want to go with us, just to get out for a while?”

Left eyebrow peaked, Hermione lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “My ahn-kells. ’Ow am I to walk weeth legs like zee troll? And eet ees too close to my time. I weel _not_ geeve birth een public again.” Not that Fleur had given birth in public last time, but Ginny supposed having her water break at the war memorial service was bad enough.

She tried to swallow her fit of giggles, but they only got worse when Harry snorted and sent a grin at them over the mashed potatoes. He shook his head and turned back to Percy’s oration, but something about that smile sparked a vision—clear as day, Ginny saw herself heavy with Harry’s baby. The laughter caught in her throat, choking her to the point that Hermione had to pound her on the back, drawing everyone’s attention. When she finally managed a sip of water and wiped the dampness from her eyes, Ginny was shocked at Harry’s openly panicked look. With a tiny shake of her head at him, she gave everyone a smile and croaked, “Sorry. Something went down the wrong way.”

Once the conversations resumed and she was reasonably sure no one was watching, Ginny succumbed to her own little panic attack. The image and the accompanying feelings of joy and contentment were so real, she had to wonder if she’d caught the “sight.” Her stomach flipped. Not that she didn’t want to give Harry a baby—she wanted it far more than was healthy at this stage of the game, even if the time wasn’t right—but it raised a fear that she’d been resolutely putting out of her mind. Their… reunion… Thursday night hadn’t exactly been planned. And even though she’d started back on the potion right away, Mum had always warned her that once was enough... and Mum should know. What if…

 _No!_ She wasn’t going to think about it. Not until she had a sign that it might be a real possibility. But even then, it wouldn’t matter. They’d just have to deal with it. She’d never do anything to deprive Harry of family, even if it did end her career.

With an effort, she pulled her focus back into the discussion about plans for Christmas. Charlie wasn’t due to arrive until next Sunday, but all of the daughters-in-law (and almost-daughters-in-law, in Audrey’s case; Mum was expecting an announcement on Christmas Day) had their families to consider, and choosing a time when everyone could be here at once was becoming a problem. Ginny was a bit sad to realize that she’d never have to worry about that if things worked out with Harry; from the wistful look on his face, he seemed to be thinking the same thing… which revived her longing to give him a family.

Merlin, she really was pathetic. And she only got worse as everyone drifted off after the meal.  

With the exception of Mrs. Tonks, who took Teddy and Victoire upstairs to read stories (and hopefully take naps), everyone seemed to be pairing off. Bill was fawning over Fleur on the sofa in the sitting room, where Ron was sprawled in Dad’s chair with Hermione curled up in his lap. George and Angelina made a not-so-subtle escape upstairs to “rest,” while Percy and Audrey bundled up for a stroll around the garden. Even Mum and Dad were canoodling—he had his arms wrapped around her waist from behind, whispering in her ear as she distractedly finished wiping down the counters with a sly grin on her face.

Since when did everyone couple-up on Sunday? And why did they have to pick today to start? It just wasn’t fair that they’d do that when they knew—or thought they knew—that she and Harry would be left out.

Of course, if they were all occupied with each other, then maybe…

Ginny peeked through the sitting room door, thinking that she’d try to give Harry a sign to meet in her old room… but he wasn’t there. Had that git gone home and not told her? They’d had it all planned: they were supposed dance around each other until at least half three, then Ginny would plead a headache and leave, and Harry would make his getaway about a half hour later. When had that changed?

She turned to go and chase him down, then stopped short when Hermione asked Ron, “Where’s Harry?”

“Dunno. Went up to the loo, I think.”

Oh. All right, then.

Uninterested in taking a front row seat for the snogfest, Ginny wandered back into the kitchen… only to find her parents locking lips. And Dad’s hand on Mum’s bum. Ewwww!

They never noticed as Ginny threw her hands up in defeat and fled into the scullery. Times like this called for drastic measures—Mum’s stash of biscuits. If she couldn’t have Harry, chocolate would have to do.

She’d barely stepped back into the kitchen, package in hand, when she was pressed roughly back against the strip of wall between the scullery door and the sideboard. Her heart froze for a second before she recognized Harry’s scent and a familiar silky sanctuary. She barely stopped herself from groaning aloud when his rough hands delved underneath the back of her jumper and his warm lips and tongue began exploring the junction of her neck and jaw.

“You know you’re driving me mad, don’t you?” he said against her earlobe before he sucked it into his mouth.

She arched against him and ran her fingers up into his hair. “Oh, Merlin, you feel so good. I’ve been dying to touch you.”

“Shhh. Have to be quiet,” he whispered, trailing kisses down the side of her neck.

The warning brought her back to the kitchen. Over Harry’s shoulder, she watched Dad open the back door to head out to his shed and Mum start to pull out the ingredients for a cake.

Ginny angled her head to give Harry better access to the path he was blazing and rubbed her crotch frantically against the thigh he’d pressed between her legs while grinding her hipbone along the bulge in his jeans. How had she gone four hours without this, parents in the room or not? “What if they hear?”

“Muffliato,” he murmured, hands coming around to mound her breasts up through the low neckline of her jumper. He growled when he discovered the front clasp of her bra and fumbled with it a bit before it came apart. “Merlin, I want you right now!”

She shivered as his tongue raked across the nipple he’d uncovered. “Who’s stopping you?” she gasped.

He pulled back, wide-eyed, to stare at her for about half a second before muttering something that might’ve been a sticking charm to hold the cloak to the wall so it wouldn’t slip. His lips crashed down on hers at the same time that his hands lifted her skirt over her hips.

Still hanging on to the package of biscuits, Ginny fumbled one-handed for his fly, but somewhere along the way, he’d managed to take care of it, too—damn, he was talented! All she had to do was shift away jeans and boxers to get him free.

He lifted her to wrap her legs around his waist and plunged in. When had he Vanished her knickers? Oh, _gods_ , he felt wonderful! With help from the wall to hold her up, they set a frenzied pace, trading sloppy kisses and dragging hands over as much bare flesh as they could find.

Just as the building wave neared its peak, Ginny heard a noise and opened her eyes. Hermione had come in and was looking around suspiciously as she talked with Mum.

“Hermione,” Ginny panted. “She knows.”

“Recognizes the buzz,” Harry grunted without breaking rhythm. “You close?”

With a nod, Ginny closed her eyes, focusing on her tensing muscles and moving her fingers down to speed the process. She could still feel Mum and Hermione’s presence, which should be dousing desire, not inflaming it. But, somehow, knowing she and Harry were practically on display, that they could be discovered at any moment, kicked Ginny’s heart rate into triple time and pushed her closer to the edge.

“What is it, Hermione, dear?” Mum’s words were muffled, but clear. Ginny opened her eyes and worked her fingers harder, then stifled a whimper when Harry bit down on the sensitive spot below her jaw that he knew would spike her arousal.

Hermione was still sending puzzled looks their way, but she turned back to Mum with a wry smile. “I thought I heard something, but it’s nothing, I guess.”

Ginny’s orgasm ripped through her like a Cruciatus modified for pleasure. Harry swallowed her moans, his body convulsing only seconds after. Merlin! How were they both still upright? She’d never properly appreciated Harry’s Auror-toned body until now.

Sagging against the wall, they traded nipping kisses and quiet chuckles as they waited for their breathing and heartbeats to settle.

Harry grinned against her mouth. “Brilliant!” he breathed.

Ginny’s face nearly split. “Yeah.”

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Harry eased her back to the floor and waved a hand to clean them both up. As they straightened their clothing, passing the biscuits back and forth to free their hands, they watched Hermione cast occasional questioning looks around the kitchen while she chopped nuts for the cake. She even leaned over to look into the open scullery door when Mum was looking the other way.

Harry removed the sticking charm on the cloak and, with a hug, placed a kiss on Ginny’s temple. “Ready?” Almost before Ginny nodded, Hermione turned her back to get eggs from the cooling cupboard and he vanished in a blink.

Shivering at the sudden loss of his warmth, Ginny smoothed her flyaway hair and took a deep breath to prepare herself for the next scene. The moment Harry cancelled the Muffliato, (and the slight buzzing in the ears to everyone outside of it) Hermione whipped around to stare at Ginny. “Where did you come from?” Her voice was no longer muted.

Carefully composing her face, Ginny held up the package, which, miraculously, was not crushed into dust. “I was in the scullery, looking for Mum’s secret stash of biscuits. Want one?”

“Just make sure you leave me some,” Mum said, her eyes still on her cake preparations.

Hermione opened her mouth, flicked her eyes at Mum, then snapped her jaw shut and shook her head. Ginny got the message loud and clear: _We’ll discuss this later_.

After only a few minutes, the cake was in the oven and Mum drifted up to her knitting room—formerly Bill’s bedroom. Hermione pounced. “I looked in the scullery earlier. You weren’t there.”

“I _was_ there.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Ginny thought she managed to keep the guilt off her face as she gestured toward the biscuits. “You must not have looked very well.”

The “thinking crease” formed between Hermione’s brows and she nibbled on her lip as she flicked her eyes between Ginny and the scullery. Then one eyebrow shot up. “Okay, let’s say I believe you. Were you alone?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “And just who would be in there with me?”

Hermione kept eyeing the scullery door, as if she could catch someone else lurking about. “I don’t know.” She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be confused or confrontational. “I keep thinking that you and Harry… well, you seemed to be getting on better… I thought maybe…”

On cue, Harry came down the stairs carrying one of Ron’s old Quidditch magazines that usually lived in the bathroom. Ginny caught a glimpse of bright pink as he shoved his hand into his pocket and realized with a start that her knickers were missing. He stopped halfway off the bottom step and looked askance at them. “What?”

Hermione cast a curious look between him and Ginny, who tried to keep her flaming face impassive. “Nothing,” Hermione said finally. “We were just talking.”

Harry scowled at her, then shifted worried eyes to Ginny. “Are you okay? You look… flushed.”

She had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. “I’m fine. Just… a bit warm…” She waved at the stove. “…all the cooking, you know.”

“Yeah, it is warm in here.” His expression and tone remained bland. “Bloody hot, if you ask me.” With that he disappeared into the sitting room.

Swallowing hard to keep down a hysterical giggle, Ginny stared after him, unable to keep the wistful look from her face. Merlin, she wanted him again already.

“You’re never going to stop loving him, are you?” Hermione’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Ginny gave her a wry smile. “Old habits die hard.”

“Maybe you should tell him. He seems to be softening a bit toward you.”

How she managed to keep a straight face, Ginny could never say, but she looked Hermione in the eye and said solemnly, “Oh, no. Where I’m concerned, he’s as hard as ever.”

***

He was doing it again. Ginny would be willing to bet he didn’t even realize how often he did it—or even that he was doing it at all. But she was beginning to hate that damned Galleon tied around his neck. He played with it constantly. Well, maybe not _constantly_ , but enough that it was driving her mad.

She’d watched him finger the gold coin absently for nearly an hour on Sunday while he, Ron, and Hermione held an intense discussion under a Muffliato Spell in the corner of the sitting room. How ironic that he’d locked her out with the same spell he’d used to sneak a shag right under her mother’s nose. As illogical as it sounded, that made her resent the coin all the more.

But since then, she’d begun noticing every time he’d touched it—usually with a faraway look—like now, as he sat leaning back on the pillows piled against the headboard, waiting for her to come back from the loo. For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if his contact might be a woman. Someone like Katya. Or Katya, herself. Or maybe a man who was meeting physical needs that no woman could.

No. Ginny didn’t really believe that. Not the way Harry’s passion literally stole her breath away. She was convinced that he loved her, but that didn’t keep her from being jealous of that coin as if it were another lover—one who might snatch him away at any moment and draw him into danger.

It had become the symbol of all her fears.

He dropped the coin and smiled when she climbed onto the bed and straddled him. The kiss he gave her was gentle, even if his hands had made quick work of opening her robe, then stroked up her sides to cup her breasts and thumb her nipples. She had to smile at the growing bulge beneath her. Merlin, he was insatiable. And had the stamina of a Thestral. They’d been on each other from the minute he’d got home from work (Was it normal for a man to come three times in an hour?) and hadn’t even stopped to eat. But, sore as she was, she’d indulge him again if he wanted it. 

Ginny arched up as his mouth trailed down her jaw and neck to take over for his left thumb. He might say he loved every inch of her equally, but he was definitely a breast man. So, yeah, probably no reason to worry about a male lover.

But they still needed to talk.

“Harry?”

“Mmmm?”

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin to expose her neck as he suckled his way back up. Oh, gods, he made it hard to concentrate—but she had to. Careful to keep her voice gentle instead of demanding, she gave the coin a tiny flick and murmured, “Can we take this off?”

He froze, then drew back to stare at her, Adam’s apple bobbing, clearly trying to decide what to say. He looked so vulnerable without his glasses. “Gin… I can’t.” The words were quiet, but firm.

Okay. Fine. She needed some space to breathe.

Fear flashed in his eyes, followed quickly by despair and resignation, but he didn’t try to stop her when she backed away to sit at the foot of the bed. Suddenly cold, she pulled her robe closed and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You can’t.” It was a question, but not; she wasn’t really surprised.

Harry’s shoulders slumped. He stared at his hands in his lap for a long moment, then looked up, his eyes pleading with her. “He’s risking his life spying for me. If he calls, I have to go.”

And how was she supposed to argue with that? This was the Harry she’d fallen in love with—noble to within an inch of his life.

“Why, Harry? Why does it _always_ have to be you? Haven’t you paid your dues? Wasn’t defeating one Dark Lord enough? Why can’t it be someone else’s turn this time?”

Ginny had had this conversation so many times in her head, she couldn’t remember if she’d actually said the words out loud before. Regardless, Harry wasn’t ready to give an answer. Mirroring her position, he drew his knees to his chest and dropped his head onto them.

Part of her wanted to crawl over and take him in her arms, tell him that she hadn’t meant it, assure him that everything was all right. But the other part of her wanted to rail and scream, snatch the Galleon from his neck and hex it into dust.

Neither seemed the right course of action, so she remained still, waiting. Eventually, his voice seeped out from behind his knees, rough and low. Without thinking, she moved to his side so she could hear.

“We were in Romania, I think. I don’t know, could’ve been Serbia. Doesn’t matter.” He lifted his head to prop his chin on his knees, staring into the distance. “We’d been working with the locals to free one of Dolohov’s captive villages.” Harry cut his eyes at Ginny, closed them for a moment, then leaned back against the pillows, his eyes open again to reveal pain like she’d never seen. She couldn’t help taking his hand and stroking his forearm to try to ease it.

With a fleeting smile of gratitude, he looked off into the past again. “When he takes over a village, he holds the youngest children hostage to keep the adults in line. People will often sacrifice themselves to try to free others, but they’ll do what they’re told if it means watching a child be tortured… for days.” Ginny was so shocked she couldn’t breathe, much less speak.

Harry’s eyelids dropped again, but he opened them quickly, as if he couldn’t bear what he’d seen behind them. His voice was tight with emotion when he spoke again. “That’s what we found when we got into the village. A boy… he couldn’t have been much older than Teddy… he was…” Harry swallowed hard and clutched at Ginny’s hand. “They’d strung him up between two trees and cast a spell to keep him alive… and conscious…”

Clutching his knees to his chest again, Harry dropped his head, drawing deep, ragged breaths. Ginny wrapped her arms around him, wishing she hadn’t started this, but knowing somehow that it would be cruel to stop it now.

Once his breathing was back under control, Harry picked up the story, but kept his head down. “They’d ripped open his chest and stomach. His organs were hanging out, oozing pus and blood and God knows what else. Whatever they’d cursed him with kept sending jolts of pain through him, like a Cruciatus that just kept repeating and repeating… even though his voice was gone, the only time he stopped screaming was when he’d seize up.”

Harry stopped to breathe again, harsh whooshes, like he was fighting to keep from sicking up or sobbing. Ginny could understand; her own stomach was writhing and she didn’t even try to stem the flood running down her face. All she could think to do was hold on tighter to make sure he knew that he wasn’t alone.

“His mother…” Harry’s voice had dropped to a rough whisper. “She begged me… begged me… There was nothing we could do. Even if he could survive physically… he’d never… never…” Ginny knew what was coming. He sounded so guilty, so full of hatred—more toward himself than the ones who’d done this.

He lifted his head, his eyes full of tears, begging for forgiveness. “I had to do it. I had to.”

“I know,” she murmured, pulling his head to her shoulder and rocking him as she stroked his back. “I know. It’s all right. You did the right thing.”

“She thanked me,” Harry said, voice muffled against Ginny’s neck. “His mother. I used Avada Kedavra on her child and she thanked me.”

And then the tears came, great wracking sobs that made Ginny wonder if he’d ever spoken about this. Knowing Harry, no—he’d kept it all in. And for that, she was glad she’d pushed him enough to lance the wound and leech the poison. Oh, how she wished she could protect him from this sort of pain. He’d never let her. He’d keep going, trying to save the world until it did him in. But, maybe he would allow her to be there after, to soothe his hurts and dry his tears.

Ginny lost track of time as they clung to one another, long after Harry’s breathing had calmed. He lay quietly with his head on her chest, his arms wrapped like Devil’s Snare around her waist. She stroked her fingers through his hair, just holding him, offering her body in comfort like she would for Teddy or Victoire.

Thinking he’d drifted into sleep, she was startled when he murmured, “That’s why I have to do it. That’s why I have to get him.”

Without breaking the rhythm of her nails combing against his scalp, she gave him a reassuring hug. It was all she could do. Even though she understood how he felt, she didn’t agree. She was selfish enough to want someone else to take over, to free Harry from his ridiculous need to take on the burdens of the world and bear the guilt for deaths he couldn’t prevent. And she was selfish enough to want him safe... to be with her. But for now, she wouldn’t tell him. He’d had enough turmoil for one day.

“There’s more,” he mumbled against her skin.

“More?”

Harry pulled one of his arms free so he could grasp her free hand and rub his thumb over her knuckles. “You know Hiram Ingalls?”

“Your other partner? I know who he is. I haven’t met him properly.”

“I nearly got him killed right after.”

Ginny’s fingers paused mid-stroke through his hair. Another layer of guilt? Did he ever stop? “What happened?”

She could feel him swallow against her breast before he continued. “We went to a Muggle pub after… I needed to… get rid of those images… or, try at least.” He stopped to just breathe against her for a moment. She could almost feel the guilt radiating from him. Sucking in a deep breath, he continued. “I was so shit-faced I could hardly stand. They had to practically carry me to the edge of town so we could Disapparate back to camp. Of course, that’s when we were ambushed. Not only was I no help defensively, Summers and Ingalls had to protect me as well, and they were outnumbered five to two.”

Ginny realized with a start that she had curled her fingers into Harry’s hair, gripping hard enough to yank it from his scalp. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Ingalls got hit. Summers barely got all of us out alive. Ingalls spent two weeks in the Sophia Magical Hospital. For days, we weren’t sure he was going to make it.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Understanding hit. “That’s why you vanish your alcohol.”

Harry nodded. “I’m never going to be in that position again.”

She slid down so they were lying face to face. “You’re a good man, Harry Potter. You have nothing, _nothing_ , to be ashamed of.”

He closed his eyes and let out a long shuddering breath as he touched his forehead to hers. “Do you know how much I love you?” he whispered.

“Probably not half as much as I love you,” she said with a light kiss, then pulled his head down to her shoulder and reached for her wand to lower the lights. “Sleep. I’ll keep the monsters away.”

Long after his breathing had grown steady, Ginny stared into the darkness, fighting her own demons.

***

“Harry and I are back together.”

Ginny held her breath after blurting out the announcement.

“Ah.”

The single syllable and the flash of understanding across Healer Andrews’s face was the only reaction Ginny got—which was more than she usually got, no matter how outlandish her words—but it was satisfying anyway. She had been bursting to tell someone for days.

She’d almost confessed to Hermione on Sunday, but had managed to keep quiet, even if Hermione _could_ keep a secret. As much as they loved her, they weren’t ready yet for Hermione’s barrage of questions and personal brand of psychoanalysis.

And this morning at the Harpies’ weekly workout session, Ginny had to literally bite her tongue until it bled to keep from telling Val, who was back from the States and bubbling over with _all_ of the gory details about her reunion with Scott. Val would never be able to keep such juicy gossip from Harry’s Auror partner… or anyone else she encountered.

No, Healer Andrews was the only one Ginny could tell and trust not to share. Healer-patient magical confidentiality bonding was a wonderful thing.

“So, how is that working out?” Healer Andrews’s mild question almost made Ginny laugh.

“It’s brilliant! Just what I’ve dreamed it would be.” Ginny squirmed in her chair, trying hard not to fill the silence, playing her waiting game to see if the Healer would give in first; as usual, Ginny lost. “It happened last Thursday. I didn’t say anything when I was here on Friday and Monday because I wasn’t sure if it was going to last, but so far, things are all right.”

“Mmmm, hmmm.” The Healer scribbled something on her notepad. “And how does your family feel about it?”

“Oh, we haven’t told anyone, yet. You’re actually the first person who knows outside of the two of us.”

More note scribbling.

Ginny rushed to defend herself. “It’s just that we wanted a chance to get to know each other again, you know… work through some of our… our issues… before the rest of the world started poking its nose in. We plan to tell the family at Christmas, and we think that’ll be fine, except for the fact that we’ve been keeping it secret… and, well, George might be a bit of a problem, but he’ll come ‘round once I make him understand that this is what I want. So, no, the family will be fine, it’s the press that we’re really worried about. They’ll be all over us like Nifflers on gold once it comes out and then the rest of the world will be in our business like we’re public property or something, so we haven’t decided whether to just let it leak out on its own, or do something formal, like an interview or a press conference. We thought we might have a bit more control about how the story is played if we do an interview, but neither of us is really keen on that, although maybe if we talk to the _Quibbler_ it’ll be okay. It’s just that we really hate the thought of everything going back to the way it was before, with all the gossip and the press trying to tear us apart, but I guess they’re going to speculate no matter what and—”

Ginny clamped her mouth shut. She’d been babbling faster and faster while Healer Andrews just nodded and “mmmm-ed” and took notes. Sometimes Ginny really wished that the Healer were more like Hermione, butting in every few minutes with question that would act as a braking charm for the mouth.

“So, you said you and Harry were working through some issues. How is that going?”

Ginny’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. Why did the bloody woman _always_ pick up on the one point that Ginny didn’t really want to delve into? She got up to pace, even though it would give away her anxiety. Her fears for Harry had been part of their sessions only since the attacks a month ago and she still had trouble talking freely about them.

“It’s going fine. We’ve made a start, anyway.” Her muffled footsteps on the thick rug and the ticking of the clock on the mantle were the only sounds in the room for several long moments. Healer Andrews just watched and waited.

Ginny finally gave in. “We… we’ve talked through lots of things… relationships with other people, why he left, what we’ve been doing over the past two years… those sorts of things.” She dropped back onto the edge of her chair, shoulders hunched, clasping her hands and squeezing them between her knees. “But not about… my problems.”

“Your problems?”

Ginny huffed, folded her arms, and flopped against the back of the chair. The bloody woman knew what problems. “My fears for him. My panic attacks. My nightmares.”

“Are you still having nightmares?”

Ginny’s mouth fell open in surprise, “No… I haven’t… not since…” Her face flamed. Healer Andrews glanced up from her notes. Ginny’s face grew impossibly warmer—she definitely didn’t want to have _that_ discussion, so she spoke quickly. “It doesn’t matter, though. I can’t tell him about them. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why not?”

Popping back up, Ginny paced for a moment before stopping to stare into the fire. “He thinks it’s his fault that I went ‘round the twist… because he broke his promise to let me know when he was going to be in danger. He said… he said he wouldn’t do that to me again… send me back to that place. If I tell him that I’m still having trouble dealing with all of that, he’ll… he’ll leave.”

“And do _you_ think it’s his fault?”

Ginny whirled to give the daft woman a glare. “No! Of course, not! Yes, he broke that promise, but I never should’ve asked him to make it in the first place. He wasn’t doing anything different than he’s ever done. _I_ was the one who changed. _I_ was the one who couldn’t handle it anymore.”

“And why is that?”

Throwing up her hands, Ginny took up her pacing again. “I don’t know. The war. The year at school under Snape and the Carrows. Fred’s death. Greyback’s attack. Take your pick. Any of them. All of them.”

“But you’ve dealt with all of those things, haven’t you?”

Ginny flopped back into her chair and ran her fingers into her hair. “Yes. We dealt with that when I first came to you. It was the issues with Harry that I never shared.”

“So why do you think those things still affect your fears for him now?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Ginny wailed, dragging her hands down to cover her face. “It’s the only thing I can think that’s causing it. I never used to be like this before… when we were in school… before everything. I knew what he had to do. Even when he dumped me after Dumbledore’s funeral because he was afraid Voldemort might use me as bait, I told him the reason I liked him so much was because I knew he wouldn’t be happy unless he was hunting the bastard. That hasn’t changed. _He_ hasn’t changed. He’s still brave and noble and kind and… and self-sacrificing. All of the things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. I _know_ he won’t be happy unless he’s hunting down Dark wizards and saving the universe—and deep down, I really _don’t_ want to change that. I just can’t understand why it bothers me so much now when it didn’t before. Well, it bothered me before… I worried about him all the time. But it’s different now. All consuming. Paralyzing. Like my brain freezes and I can’t function because I’m so terrified of losing him again.”

“Do you think he’s unable to defend himself?”

Ginny kept her head down, her eyes closed, as she searched her heart for answers. “No,” she finally mumbled. “No, I know he can take care of himself. I saw him duel Dolohov at the charity match. Harry’s a powerful wizard, and wicked fast—much better now than when he dueled Voldemort.” She looked up begging for answers. “But why does it always have to be him? Hasn’t he done enough? Can’t someone else do it this time?”

“Have you asked _him_ those questions?”

Ginny wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her upper arms, trying to dispel the sudden chill racing through her veins. How much should she say… _could_ she say without betraying Harry’s trust? She couldn’t talk about the Galleon and her burning jealousy over it—that might compromise his contact—but she really _needed_ to talk about his revelation last night. It had confirmed her worst fears.

Ginny sighed and leaned her head against the back of the chair. “Yes. I asked him last night.”

“What did he say?”

Rubbing her arms again, Ginny closed her eyes and swallowed bile as the sound of Harry’s words echoed in her ears. “He… he told me about something… unthinkable… what Dolohov does to keep his captives in line.” She took a shuddering breath and sat up to watch the Healer’s reaction—she was sure she’d get one this time. “He tortures children in the most atrocious ways while the adult prisoners—especially their parents… their mothers—are forced to watch.”

The look of horror that passed across the Healer’s face confirmed Ginny’s suspicions—the woman had a warm heart under that bland demeanor.

“Harry…” Ginny stopped to choose her words carefully; she couldn’t share what Harry had done. “He… he has a soft spot for children. During a raid, they found a boy in the midst of being tortured… there was nothing they could do to save him. Harry was devastated. He told me about it to help me understand why he feels so strongly that he has to stop Dolohov.”

“And did it help you understand?”

Ginny snorted a bitter laugh. “No. It made me want to chain him to the bed to keep him safe. If that monster would do that to an innocent child, what would he do to Harry? Just the thought of it makes me want to curl up and die.”

Hit with an imaginary vision of Harry in the place of that little boy, followed quickly by the very real memory of him lying lifeless at Voldemort’s feet, Ginny dropped her head into her hands and struggled to contain her irrational panic. After several long moments, Healer Andrews finally broke the silence. (Score one for Ginny, even if it was an empty victory.)

“Did you tell him that?” The words were unusually gentle.

Without looking up, Ginny shook her head. “How could I? He’s already told me he won’t stay if he thinks he’s doing anything that might send me back into… that place.” She jerked her head up and gave the Healer a fierce look. “Don’t! Don’t say it! We can make this work. I _know_ we can! We’ve been through so much together and we’re good for each other. Since we got back together…” Sod it all! “Since we’ve been sleeping together, I haven’t had a single nightmare. And last night… last night, I think I helped him, too. He slept more peacefully than I’ve ever seen him. In fact, he’s been more relaxed all around since last Thursday. We make each other happy. I _know_ this is right. We _can_ make it work… but not if he leaves. He’s got to _be_ here or we’ll never get sorted.”

Ginny held her breath, waiting for the scolding she knew was coming.

Healer Andrews pushed out a heavy sigh and laid her notepad aside. “I have to say that I’m a bit concerned about this, Ginny. Unless you and Harry can deal openly and honestly with these issues, this has all the makings of a _very_ unhealthy relationship. However…” She held up a hand to forestall Ginny’s argument. “I think if you _can_ learn to be honest with each other, you might find that you have an easier time dealing with your fears for him. Perhaps you should think of setting up a ‘safe space.’ Somewhere that you can both feel free to share anything that’s on your mind without fear of judgment or incrimination.”

Healer Andrews studied Ginny for a moment before speaking again. “You know Harry better than I do. I would imagine that this isn’t the only horrifying event he has encountered. Is _he_ under the care of a Mind Healer?”

“Not likely,” Ginny said with a grim smile. “Harry’s never been one for talking about his feelings or unburdening himself on others. Last night was pretty unusual. I’d bet my broomstick that he’s never told anyone else.”

The Mind Healer’s lips pressed into a white line. “The Auror Division usually works very hard to ensure the psychological well-being of its members, but he’s probably one of those who knows all of the tricks to pass his annual psych exam without letting on about his problems.”

Ginny couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, that sounds like Harry.”

Healer Andrews cocked her head, giving Ginny a calculating look. “Have you considered couple counseling? Like your brother and his wife are doing?”

Surprised, Ginny gave a humorless laugh. She’d forgotten that they’d talked about Hermione and Ron going to counseling together. “No. No, I haven’t thought about it. But I doubt he’ll go. Harry’s… well, he doesn’t think he needs this sort of thing. He did it for a bit right after the war, but only because it was necessary to get into Auror training. I doubt he’d go now unless he were forced.”

“Even if _you_ asked? Even if it was for _your_ benefit?”

“I…” Ginny stopped, thinking hard. Did she dare ask him? What if he said no? Or took it as a sign that she was headed back to la-la-land?

“I have a friend.” Healer Andrews interrupted Ginny’s thoughts. “Charles Tottingham works with the Aurors. He may even be the one counseling your brother and his wife. At any rate, when you’re ready, I’d like to suggest that you and Harry see him. But even if Harry won’t go with you, Charles is much more experienced in dealing with the kinds of issues you’re facing than I am, and you may benefit from talking to him in addition to your sessions with me. I’m certain he could get you into their family care program.”

Ginny didn’t argue, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about sharing her darkest secrets with anyone else. In spite of the professional mask, she’d grown quite comfortable with her grandmotherly Healer; talking to a man would be… different. Of course, if Harry were there, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Or it might be worse.

Well, anyway, she didn’t have to make any decisions right now—not until they announced their status to the world, and that probably wouldn’t happen until after the New Year. For now, she just needed to get through an afternoon of shopping with Hermione without giving anything away.

***

“If you’re sure you don’t need me this afternoon, I’ll be going now.”

Harry looked up from the intelligence report to find Hermione standing in the office doorway looking almost like she hoped he’d tell her to stay. That wasn’t going to happen. Even if she hadn’t worked late nearly every evening over the past couple of weeks, he needed one afternoon free of having to keep up his façade. She was taking the afternoon off if he had to literally kick her out.

“Have fun,” he said with an air of unconcern and turned back to his report. But he could see her from the corner of his eye, shifting from foot to foot uncertainly.

“Erm… I’m going Christmas shopping. Do you need me to pick up anything for you?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it covered,” Harry replied without looking up.

Hermione stopped shuffling and crossed her arms. “You _do_ know that Fleur can’t do it for you this year, don’t you? In fact, I’m doing a good bit of hers this afternoon.”

Harry put a finger in a random spot on his report, as if he’d actually been reading it, and looked up. “I’m perfectly capable of doing my own shopping, you know.” Well, it was the truth. He _was_ capable. But he’d also be a fool to turn down Ginny’s offer to finish up for both of them so they could spend their time together on… other activities.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Christmas is next Tuesday. Have you even started yet?”

“Yes, I have,” Harry said, emphasizing each word in a lofty tone. “I even have a list. I’ll probably hit the shops to finish up on Monday.” Well, it wasn’t necessarily a lie. He still had to get something for Ginny.

“Monday?” Hermione squeaked. “Harry, that’s…”

“Christmas Eve. Plenty of time.” Giving her a dismissive wave, he turned back to his report. “You’d better get moving, since you’re obviously behind.”

With something between a huff and a growl, she stalked off without saying goodbye. Harry grinned. What a relief not to have to school his face any longer. Or pretend to read this stupid report. Pushing his chair away from the desk, he stretched the kinks out of his back and flopped into a lazy sprawl. Merlin, he was tired. He’d forgotten how exhausting it was to keep up a front for long periods. Maybe he was getting soft.

He wondered for a moment how Ginny was going to get through the afternoon having to interact almost constantly with Hermione. Harry could at least pretend to be concentrating on something else or escape the office altogether to get a reprieve from those much-too-observant eyes. Of course, it wouldn’t really matter if Ginny slipped up today. They could count on Hermione to keep the secret, but Merlin, she’d drive them barmy with questions and smug looks, if not outright I-told-you-so’s. He just wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. Working through the hard things with Ginny was quite enough for the moment, thank you very much.

Closing his eyes, Harry drew in a cleansing breath. Last night had been… excruciating. He’d never wanted to dredge up those horrible memories again, but once he’d forced himself to tell Ginny, he’d been surprised to feel… lighter… like a great weight had been lifted from his chest. And the nightmares he’d expected had never come. Ginny had meant it when she said she’d keep the monsters away.

But she’d looked tired this morning, as if she’d stayed awake to stand guard. She said she was fine, but he hoped he hadn’t just shifted his burden over to her. At least now she understood why he had to finish this thing with Dolohov. Once that was done, Harry thought he might be able to pull back from working the field quite so much. The part-time gig teaching Defense was going well; he’d been switching off with the regular instructor for the past month, but maybe when the next class of trainees came in, he’d ask if he could become a full-time instructor. Yeah… that wasn’t such a bad idea, and it would make Ginny feel bet—

A wisp of silver zipped through the wall and coalesced into a shimmering fox that spoke with Summers’s voice. “Potter, we’ve found a way into the French village. We’ll be ready to go in an hour.”

Barely remembering to set the wards on the office on his way out, Harry was at the Apparition point within seconds. With luck, maybe they’d be able to end this today.

***

When Harry arrived, the French base camp was in an uproar with more Aurors running about than he’d ever seen there. Summers waved from the opening of a tent then disappeared inside. Harry hurried after him.

Ten elite French fighters were gathered around a map, pointing and babbling over each other, apparently finalizing plans. Summers drew Harry into a corner and murmured an update.

“Yesterday, they set a team to watch a cave that was emitting a strong magical aura on the border where the village used to be. This morning, two wizards came out of it carrying a large box and Disapparated before they could be stopped. About an hour later, the two came back empty-handed and went back into the cave. No one has come out since.

“A couple of hours ago, the French commander sent in his best scouts to check it out. The cave is the opening to a tunnel that comes out at the center of the village. It’s one of the Dark artifacts trafficking operations manned by a half-dozen of Dolohov’s men.” Summers nodded at the group around the table. “They’re getting ready now to take it down.”

“I’m going with them.” Harry flicked a translation spell so he could follow the discussion.

“I already told them _we’re_ going,” Summers said, “but as back-up. They need to take the lead.”

All of Hermione’s scolding about not offending their allies echoed in Harry’s head. He grimaced, but nodded. “All right,” he said. “But if Dolohov’s there, I’m not holding back.”

“I don’t think they’d expect you to.”

As they approached the table, the French commander greeted Harry and looked ready to give over his position as leader, but Harry gestured for him to continue. The look of approval and respect in the man’s eyes confirmed Hermione’s point. Bloody know-it-all.

Within half an hour, assignments had been made and supporting troops were in place to rush in when needed. The advance team gathered at the cave entrance and Disillusioned themselves before plunging in.

“I don’t like this,” Harry whispered to Summers as they left the light at the end of the tunnel behind. The narrow passage was barely wide enough for two to walk abreast and was lit only by an occasional torch that left long stretches of near darkness between. Harry’s instincts were screaming at him to get everyone out, but this wasn’t his party. “I should’ve gone first. Something’s wrong. It’s too easy.”

Stopping short, Summers slapped a hand on Harry’s arm. “I trust your instincts. Let’s—”

But the procession ahead had slowed to a near halt signaling that the team members had begun their stealthy exit into the bright glow ahead.

“Too late,” Harry muttered. He couldn’t call out a retreat now and risk alerting the Death Eaters to their position and he couldn’t leave those who had already gone through to their fate.

When it was his turn to exit into the sunshine, Harry took one look around and screamed, “GET BACK! IT’S A TRAP!”

The tunnel closed behind him with a grinding _thunk_ …


	54. The Real Work Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anything this blissful couldn’t possibly last. His life just didn’t work like that...

“GET BACK! IT’S A TRAP!”

_Thunk._

The tunnel closed behind him and their Disillusionment Charms melted like ice under a heat blast.

Harry shoved Summers to the ground and cast his strongest shield to block the barrage of spells raining down, covering as many of the French team as he could reach. The two in the lead never stood a chance.

“Watch your backs!” Harry shouted as the team scurried to erect their own shields. “The spells ricochet in here.”

Harry cursed himself for not being the first out of the tunnel. No one else could have recognized the transparent dueling dome stretching across the vacant village square and sealing itself across the stone storefronts. Ten times the size of the one he had fought in while disguised as a Hungarian schoolboy, it was even more terrifying with the added menace of a half-dozen armed Death Eaters circling on brooms overhead.

The French fighters paired off, fighting back-to-back, frantically defending against the multicolored firestorm. It wasn’t enough. They needed to take the offensive. So when Harry and Summers stumbled into one of their own desperately trying to defend himself and his fallen comrade, Harry pulled the man into their formation.

“Enlarge your shields to cover me. On my signal, drop them, then put them right back up,” Harry ordered over his shoulder. “I’ll fire offensive spells through the gap and see if we can’t even the odds a bit.”

After a few ill-timed attempts, they got into a rhythm, and by the time Harry finally managed to take down one aerial attacker, the other French fighters had caught on. Three more Death Eaters fell in quick succession, but the tide of the battle wasn't turning.

“They’re multiplying like fuckin’ rabbits!” Summers yelled.

Harry looked up. Death Eaters floated in a line above the dome, each waiting his turn to enter the fray. Dolohov, laughing maniacally from his broom, opened a portal near the top of the dome long enough to admit a single person to replace each of the fallen.

“Follow my lead,” Harry commanded, edging Summers and his other partner toward one of the Stunned Death Eaters. Harry kicked the unconscious man away and grabbed the broom he’d been half lying on. “When I say, drop the shield and cover me!”

Summers shook his head. “Potter! You’re mental!”

“Just do it!” Harry straddled the broom, battling fiercely while he kept one eye on Dolohov. “Now!”

The shield fell. Harry shot into the air, dodging curses and firing his own. The edges of the portal skimmed his calves as he passed through, clipping the tail of his broom and spinning him out of control. But that only made him a tougher target for Dolohov and his minions.

“POT-TER!” Dolohov roared.

Wrestling the broom into submission, Harry held his shield steady and squinted against the blinding spellfire headed his way. He dipped and dived and rolled through the furious swarm, doing his best to draw their attention away from the battle in the dome. In between casting curses at his attackers and leading them on a dizzying chase, Harry bombarded the top of the dome with blasting hexes, hoping that the entry portal was the weak point that would eventually bring it down.

“Surround him!” Dolohov ordered his men. “He’s mine!”

Harry grinned. Arrogant Dark Lords made his job _so_ much easier.

He shot skyward, luring Dolohov’s men close enough to think they’d trapped him, then twisted like a mad man through the narrowing gap, leaving a cloud of anti-gravity mist in his wake. Unable to tell up from down, three of the wizards fell from their brooms and hit the ground with sickening thuds.

Ducking one of Dolohov’s signature purple spells, Harry sent another Blasting Hex at the top of the dome, then glanced back over his shoulder at the answering blast from inside. _YES!_ Summers and company had subdued the last of the Death Eaters inside and were searching for a way out.

A flash of orange seared across Harry’s left shoulder, leaving a gash that quickly filled with blood and made it difficult to hold onto his broom. Merlin’s balls, it hurt! But he didn’t have time to think about pain. Diving to avoid two curses that collided where he’d just been, he weaved his way through the Death Eaters and circled back around to send another blast at the dome.

On his third pass, his hex met one from within. The dome exploded, propelling shimmering magic into the air like lethal shards of glass. He winced as one sliced through his calf. Thank God he’d been facing away from the blast. Two Death Eaters screamed in agony, hands covering bloody faces as they plummeted.

Within seconds, the air battle ignited in blinding brilliance. More than half of the French fighters had commandeered brooms. The remainder hurried to secure their captives and open the tunnel to let the waiting reinforcements through.

Harry rocketed above the clash searching for his prey, then flattened himself against his broom. Dolohov was tearing away from the fight, seemingly intent on a specific target at the edge of the village. Harry’s heart clenched. He urged his broom faster. If this village was like the others…

White-hot flames shot from Dolohov’s wand, immediately engulfing the low-slung building he targeted. Terrified screams confirmed Harry’s fears.

“FIRE!” Harry shouted toward the ground troops. “CHILDREN!”

Dolohov’s sinister laughter echoed throughout the small valley.

Fueled by rage, Harry shot toward him, dodging a barrage of purple hexes and slinging his own rapid-fire volley of questionable curses. Dolohov wheeled and took off toward the mountains. Harry leaned into his broom, intent only on bringing the bastard down once and for all.

As he closed in, Harry flung curses, fast and furious, ducking and weaving his way between Dolohov’s over-the-shoulder, but frighteningly accurate, shots. Harry rolled out of the way of a purple hex into a yellow one that glanced off his injured arm and sent a spasm of fire through his body. Shaking it off, he steadied his broom and plunged ahead. The air rippled around Dolohov. Harry put on a burst of speed—he had to make it through the invisible boundary before Dolohov could Disapparate.

Maniacal laughter, a sickening crunch, and the world went black.

***

“Har-ry! Are you home?” Ginny bellowed up the stairs.

He hadn’t got home before eight o’clock any night this week, but it was almost that now. Even so, she hadn’t really expected an answer.

With a shrug, she flounced into the sitting room and dug all of her shrunken purchases from her pockets before tossing the coat onto a chair. In seconds the floor was covered with bags of every size and color from both Wizarding and Muggle stores. She couldn’t wait to show Harry what she’d got and tell him about her brilliant idea for them to give gifts as a couple. Besides keeping Hermione from noticing that she was buying double gifts for each person, it would be a great way to break the news to the family on Christmas morning.

Of course, that didn’t mean that Ginny had spent less money. Not only had she gone through every Knut in both her own purse and the bag Harry had given her, she’d had to make a stop at Gringotts for more. She’d probably gone a bit overboard—especially for the kids, both in the family and at the children’s home—but it was worth it. She just loved giving presents, especially now that she had sorted everything with George and once again had enough of her own money to do it properly.

The afternoon spent giggling and talking with Hermione had been fun. Ginny had slipped up only twice, but if Hermione had caught on, she didn’t say anything. And even after the intense session with Healer Andrews this morning, the day had left Ginny in a joyful, festive mood.

Grabbing a cup of hot chocolate from the kitchen and turning the Christmas music on the wireless up loud, she set about displaying her gifts and hanging the garlands, mistletoe, and fairy lights she’d bought to brighten up the house. She was so caught up in singing along with the horrible Celestina Warbeck music (she’d never admit that Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without it) and setting everything out just so that, by the time she’d finished, she was surprised to find it was nearly ten o’clock.

Harry wasn’t home.

Suddenly, the music was too loud. Ginny snapped the wireless off and drew several deep breaths.

Okay. Nothing to panic about. The last time she’d thought he was late, he’d been just fine. Maybe he’d just got caught up in a meeting. Or something. No need to worry. The best thing to do was to keep busy. Don’t think too much.

Now, the silence was too loud. Ginny turned the wireless back on, but lowered the volume. She looked around at the decorations that now seemed gaudy and the presents that were no longer perfect. Maybe she should clear this mess. No, he’d be hungry when he got home. A sandwich. Yes. That’s it. Fix something for him to eat.

She hurried down the two flights of stairs to the dimly lit kitchen, but the silence there was even worse, a tangible thing, a Lethifold crawling over her skin and sucking away her breath. With a flick of her wand, she flared the lights and Summoned the wireless to keep her company while she sliced bread and meat and cheese. It didn’t help. The creak of cupboard doors echoed hollowly through shadowed corners. The knife hitting the chopping board was an ominous counterpoint to the music.

Holding onto her rebellious thoughts with an iron will, she concentrated on her task, cutting each slice with Snape-like precision and stacking the sandwich like an impenetrable fortress. She took her time laying the tray with china, cutlery, fine linens, and a golden goblet of pumpkin juice in an arrangement worthy of the Minister himself.

She carried it upstairs—doing it manually required more concentration than levitating it—and set it on the table next to Harry’s chair in the sitting room. One deep breath, then another. A cautious glance at the clock.

Ten fifteen.

Ginny sat heavily in the chair. _What now?_ The familiar panic crawled through her brain and she dropped her head into her hands, pulling at her hair. _No!_ She wasn’t going to do this again. He was fine. He had to be fine.

But she’d left the wireless in the kitchen and she couldn’t hear it above the _snick, snick_ of the mantle clock, slightly off beat with the heavy _tock, tock, tock_ of the big grandfather clock upstairs. Neither matched the pace of her thumping heart, which was working itself up to drown them both out.

Healer Andrews would tell her to call someone—don’t sit here alone letting the demons take over.

Sitting up, Ginny straightened her shoulders. She could do this. She’d done it last week. She could do it now. Besides, the only person she’d even consider calling was Hermione, who wouldn’t know where Harry was anyway—she’d been with Ginny all afternoon.

_She could probably find out._

Ginny gave the voice in her head a shove. _No!_ How was she ever going to be completely honest with Harry if she couldn’t show him that she was better? He was going to pop into the entry hall any moment and she needed to show him that she was strong enough to wait for him on her own. _That’s it._ Just go and sit on the stairs to wait for him.

***

Harry hurt everywhere. But he’d had all the poking and prodding he could take.

Fighting off the medi-wizards, he strode out of the makeshift hospital and down the street, snarling as his hand curled around the cold Galleon at his neck. Where was bloody Malfoy? Why hadn’t he sent a warning? The likely answer didn’t bear consideration, so Harry turned his focus to his surroundings.

Scattered debris and the acrid smell of lingering smoke somehow magnified the moans of the injured and the sobs of families clutching each other. As much as possible at this point, everything was under control: the captured Death Eaters had been processed and the Ministers on both sides of the Channel debriefed.

With Dolohov gone, Harry was no longer needed. Not here, anyway.

Frustration and anxiety churned in his gut. He walked as quickly as his sore leg would allow toward the improvised command center, finally permitting his mind to settle on his worst fear—what Ginny must be thinking by now. He had no idea what time it was, but he knew it was late. Very, very late. Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d at least give him a chance to explain. More likely, she’d decided he wasn’t worth the bother. His gut twisted again.

Forcing his mind blank, Harry concentrated on hobbling up to where Summers lounged outside a door, twirling a flattened bean tin on the tip of one finger. “No need to go in. I already told them we were leaving and got us a Portkey. Didn’t think you’d be up to Apparating.”

Grateful beyond belief, Harry murmured his thanks and took the corner of the offered tin, letting the hook pull his navel through his spine. Summers caught him when he stumbled as they landed next to the Apparition point in the Ministry Atrium.

Once Harry had found his feet, Summers gave him a gentle push toward the platform. “Go home. I’ll leave Hermione a note. We won’t look for you before noon.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Harry growled.

Summers rolled his eyes. “No, but you should still be in a hospital bed. That was one helluva crash. How many bones and internal organs did they have to repair?”

Harry glared.

Summers smirked. “Get some sleep. Or maybe find that little bird again to nurse you back to health, yeah?” He laughed when Harry scowled; something in his voice made Harry wonder if he’d worked it all out yet. But Summers just waved him on. “See you tomorrow afternoon. Or, better yet, just wait ’til Friday. We should be able to keep the world from falling apart without you for one day.”

Harry offered a two-finger salute and cast a Silencing Charm to keep his Apparation quiet. If, by some miracle, Ginny was still there and asleep, he didn’t want to disturb her.

When he landed in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place, he had to close his eyes and steady himself against the wall until the room stopped spinning. Two bongs from the grandfather clock made his stomach clench. Later than he’d thought. Not good. He listened for a moment. Christmas music wafted softly from the kitchen. Maybe she was still here. Or maybe she’d just left the wireless on. Only one way to find out.

Steeling himself against the disappointment of finding an empty house, he opened his eyes… and saw her.

She looked like a child sitting sideways on the stair, arms gripping her legs, head resting on her knees, rocking forward and backward in a tiny, frantic moves. At his gasp, her head popped up, red-rimmed eyes huge and dark against the ghost white of her face. Before he could think to move, she was wrapped around him, trembling violently and sobbing incoherently into his chest.

His heart plummeted as he automatically hugged her. He’d expected her to be gone. Or, at best, furious. Anything but this. Unbidden, his mind summoned the image of her on the steps at the Burrow, pale and frail. _Damn it!_ She’d said she was better. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do this to her again.

Only he couldn’t let her go right now. Having her in his arms, even in this state, was like a balm to his soul after the horrors of the day. But fate had other ideas… or Ginny did, anyway.

As quickly as she’d molded herself to him, she shoved him away. “Where have you been?”

Anger. Good. Anger he could handle. In fact, with the aftershocks of the battle crashing in, he found he could match it. Using all of his control, he managed to keep his emotions in check and his voice even. “They found a way into the French village. I had to go.”

“You couldn’t have owled to let me know?”

The grip on his anger slipped. His voice remained quiet but took on a lethal edge. “When was I supposed to do that? While I was fighting off Dolohov and fifty Death Eaters, or when we were rescuing the children from the building he torched?”

Ginny blanched.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. He really couldn’t do this right now. He’d end up saying something he’d regret. Stepping around her, he headed for the stairs.

“Wait!” She sounded desperate. “Where are you going?”

Harry paused with one foot on the bottom step, but didn’t turn around. “I need a shower.” Without waiting for an answer, he forced his legs up the stairs faster than they wanted to go and locked the bathroom door behind him—not that he expected her to follow.

He stood under the hot water for a long time, hoping it would pound away his aches and chaotic thoughts. Instead, they congealed to form a throbbing pain centered about his heart. He couldn’t shake the image of Ginny’s ashen fear. She’d been terrified—he could understand that. If their positions were switched, he’d have been just as frightened and shouting down the Ministry to find her. But that’s what he couldn’t understand: why had she just given up? The Ginny he’d known before—the one who’d stood up to Snape and the Carrows, and even Bellatrix Lestrange, if only for a few minutes— _that_ Ginny would’ve moved heaven and hell to find him, too.

Only _that_ Ginny didn’t seem to exist anymore.

And why hadn’t she told him that she was still fighting those demons? She’d said she was better. She’d said she understood when he’d told her why he had to stop Dolohov.

Apparently she’d lied.

Harry braced himself on the shower wall and hung his head to let the hot spray beat down on his neck as he battled the wave of despair that suddenly threatened to drown him. They were already falling apart and they hadn’t even begun to face the rest of the world. How could they possibly survive as a couple if the very foundations of their relationship were crumbling before they were fully laid? But hadn’t he expected this all along? Why should this be any different from any other good thing that had ever happened to him?

Snapping the water off in disgust, Harry gave his hair and skin a cursory swipe with the towel, then wrapped it around his waist, put on his glasses, and walked to the bedroom. He stopped just inside the door. Ginny was standing by the window, arms clutched about her waist, watching him warily as if she wasn’t sure she should be there. His initial relief was quickly swamped by the remnants of his foul mood and bone deep exhaustion. They might be better off giving each other some space, at least for tonight.

But he didn’t have it in him to say so. Because he really didn’t want her to leave.

Her small cry of alarm yanked him from his thoughts. “You’re hurt!”

Her aborted step toward him, eyes on his shoulder, drew his attention to the gash that had been healed only enough to staunch the flow of blood while the Healers concentrated on his internal injuries. Once conscious, he hadn’t given them a chance to finish the job.

He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

She did move then. “It’s _not_ nothing. Harry, it’s—”

Jerking away from her hand, he glared at her. “It’s nothing. Three babies and the woman caring for them were burned to death when Dolohov set fire to the building where they were being held prisoner. Two other children and the man who tried to rescue them were burned so badly the Healers don’t know if they’ll make it through the night. Eight other children and three women had to be treated for smoke inhalation. Two of our best fighters were killed in an ambush that never would’ve happened if I’d gone in first. And the fucking bastard got away again.” His voice had grown louder with each item in the list. He jutted his shoulder forward, making blood ooze from the barely knit skin, and shouted. “This? This is _nothing_!”

By the time he’d finished, she was cringing back into the window, hugging herself again, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Harry gave himself a mental kick. He shouldn’t be taking it out on her. With a heavy sigh, he turned and snatched open a drawer.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ve had a bit of a bad day.”

“’S’okay,” she mumbled between sniffles. “I just… I wish I could help.”

Harry let the wall of silence stand as he pulled on pyjama bottoms (they felt strange after not wearing any for nearly a week) and ran the towel over his hair again to keep it from dripping. She _could_ help. In spite of his anger and frustration, more than anything he just wanted to hold her. But, even if she’d let him, it probably wasn’t a good idea. They obviously had a few more issues to work out.

He snorted softly to himself. This one issue was more than enough. He couldn’t walk away from the search for Dolohov, but he couldn’t bear risking Ginny’s sanity, either.

The enormity of their problem dropped on him like a boulder. Damn her for keeping this from him! Damn him for letting it matter. He never should’ve got this close, never should’ve let down his defenses. Never should’ve come back to England in the first place.

He slammed the side of his fist on the chest, rattling the bottles and combs and things on top—Ginny’s things. When had she all but moved in?

“You said you were better,” he ground out as he rounded on her. “Why did you lie?”

She flinched further into the space between the curtains, but lifted her chin and gave him a blazing look. Merlin, he wished she wouldn’t do that. He had all he could do not to look away. Or kiss her.

“I didn’t lie.” Her voice held only a hint of a quiver. “I _am_ better. Much better. Just not…” She finally dropped her eyes to the floor and swallowed hard. “You said you’d leave… if I wasn’t better. I couldn’t tell you because you said you’d leave and how are we ever going to work through this if you leave?”

She was watching him again, waiting for an answer he didn’t have. He couldn’t remember saying he’d leave… but he’d just been thinking it, hadn’t he?

When he didn’t speak, she sighed and ran a shaky hand through her hair. “I was going to tell you tonight. Healer Andrews—” Ginny paused when Harry stiffened but she spoke again before he could argue. “Healer Andrews advised me to be honest with you or we’d never be able to work through this. She—” Ginny cut herself off and looked back at the floor. She was hiding something. How much had she told the Healer about them… about him? She looked up, her face filled with a mixture of pleading and determination. “She said we need to have a safe space. Somewhere that we can say whatever we need to say without worrying about consequences.”

Harry looked away, gritting his teeth to contain his anger. Safe space. Right. He’d been through all that Healer hocus-pocus after the war. All they wanted to do was drag up memories and feelings that were better left buried. They thought they had answers for everything. But he didn’t see any answer for this—he couldn’t quit and Ginny couldn’t tolerate it. End of story.

The thought demolished the remnants of strength keeping him upright. He ran his fingers under his glasses to scrub at his eyes. “I can’t do this right now.” Without looking at her, he moved to the bed, tossed his glasses on the side table and flopped into the covers still tangled from the night before.

Ginny moved uncertainly to the other side of the bed. “Do you… can I…”

Harry closed his eyes so she wouldn’t see how badly he wanted her to stay and kept his voice neutral as he muttered, “Whatever you want.” He nearly wept with relief when she shimmied out of her clothes and crawled in with him.

A wave of his hand extinguished the lights and he lay stiffly, staring into the canopy overhead, fighting the fear that was sinking into his bones. This was it. No matter what she said or how long she dragged it out, he was going to lose her again. That scared him more than any confrontation with Dolohov.

She curled on her side facing him, leaving enough room for another person between them. He was concentrating so hard on not seeking out the warmth radiating across the bed that he jumped when her cold fingers laced through his.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t shut me out.”

He gripped her hand, need and desire battling survival instincts. Now was the time to push her away, give them both a chance to get out before they did any more damage to each other.

But she took the decision away, easing across the bed and wrapping her arms around him. His defenses crumbled. Rolling them over, he clutched her to his chest and buried his nose in her hair, desperate for the scent that would allow him to breathe again. He had to be crushing her, but she didn’t protest.

One by one, his braced-for-a-blow muscles relaxed as she stroked his back and kissed a line up his throat, breathing soothing murmurs against his skin. Oh, Merlin, she was going to kill him ever so slowly.

He could think of no better way to go.

***

The grey light of almost-morning was pushing through the crack in the curtains when Ginny awoke… alone. She sat up with a jerk, frozen with fear. Her breath came back in a whoosh when she recognized the familiar swishes and jingles of Harry getting dressed in the dark.

But why was he up so early? Couldn’t he take at least the morning off after such a long, hazardous day?  And she’d hoped they could talk…

“Where are you going?”

His movements faltered for only a second as he looked toward her. In the half-light, she couldn’t read his eyes, but she didn’t miss the flex of his jaw that told her all she needed to know—he’d planned to sneak out before she woke.

“Work,” he finally said, dropping into the chair to pull on his boots.

“But you just got home a few hours ago, and you’re still hurt. Surely, they don’t exp—”

“I’m the head of this investigation.” His quiet voice held a steely edge. “I need to be there to direct the follow-up and start working on a counter-attack.”

Ginny’s heart dropped. She forced away thoughts of what a counter-attack might involve and focused on the immediate problem—he’d closed himself off again. She’d thought they’d got past that, although looking back, their lovemaking _had_ held a bit of desperation. Panic fluttered to life. Surely, he wouldn’t…

“You’ll be home later?”

He looked away when she scrambled naked from the bed to fumble her arms into his bathrobe. “You don’t need to get up.” The fastenings on his Auror robes seemed to require a great deal of concentration.

Ginny’s heart pounded furiously. He hadn’t answered her question. Of course he was coming home. Where else would he go? No, better not answer that. And better not push her luck. “I... I haven’t cooked in a few days. I’ll have supper waiting when you get back.”

He hesitated before clicking his wand into his holster with undue attention. But, did his shoulders relax just a bit? When he finally answered, his voice was still reserved. “It might be late.”

Her chest eased enough to allow a normal breath. “I don’t care what time it is. That’s why they made warming charms.” She used his refusal to look at her as a chance to move between him and the door. He seemed surprised to find her there when he turned to leave. With a forced smile and more confidence than she felt, she took a shot in the dark. “Harry, you’re going to have to change the wards on the house to keep me away. Even then, I’ll hunt you down. You’d better get your arse back here when you’re done, no matter what time it is.” She put her hands on her hips and took a step toward him, lifting her face. “I want my goodbye kiss.”

He closed his eyes a moment, flexing his jaw and clenching his fists, obviously wrestling with some, no doubt, noble notion. She decided offense was the best defense and closed the space between them to pull his head down for her kiss. He didn’t resist, but a long moment passed before he wrapped his arms around her and responded. The kiss was bittersweet. Once he gave in, his hunger was obvious but carefully controlled… as if he were already preparing himself to put distance between them again.

When he finally started to pull away, she held on, leaning back so she could see his face. “We can talk tonight?” He refused to meet her eyes. She held her breath, then let it out when he eventually gave her a hesitant nod and a gentle kiss. She let him go and leaned against the doorframe, listening until she heard the pop of his Disapparition before he reached the bottom of the stairs.

_He said he’d be back. He said he’d be back._

The mantra started in her head as she rubbed her arms against the chill—physical and emotional—his departure had left behind. Suddenly lost, Ginny looked around. She couldn’t just sit here all day driving herself mad. Maybe a trip to the children’s home? She hadn’t been in a couple of days.

Plan in mind, she opened the drawer she’d appropriated in Harry’s chest. Bollocks! No more clean underwear. All right, then. Change of plan. Home first to do laundry.

She’d barely stepped from the Floo and crossed her sitting room when the fire flared again behind her.

“Ginny! Ginny, are you there?” Hermione’s voice sounded worried.

As Hermione called out again, Ginny shoved her dirty clothes bag behind the sofa and stumbled back to the hearth. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m right here.”

The relief on Hermione’s face was obvious even through the green flames. “Finally! I’ve been trying to find you since last night. I even sent George up to be sure you weren’t sick or dead or something. Where have you been? I was getting ready to send out a search team.”

Great! Now George would be suspicious, too. Ginny rolled her eyes to cover the scramble her brain was making for an excuse. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just… erm, went out… for a drink with… with, erm, Kelby last night. Ended up kipping on her couch.” Ginny gave herself a mental slap. She hadn’t had such a hard time concocting a cover story since she was five.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Kelby, huh? If I didn’t know better, Ginny Weasley, I’d say you were trying to hide something… or maybe some _one_. And now that I think about it, a couple of things you said yesterday are starting to make more sense. Is there something you haven’t told me?”

Ginny sighed. Hermione probably knew more than she even realized. Maybe the time had come to just spill it. A shoulder to cry on would be a blessing and, much as Ginny hated to admit it, Hermione knew Harry better than anyone. Her advice could be invaluable.

“Ginny?”

That one word asked a thousand questions. But Ginny wasn’t ready yet. She and Harry had agreed to keep it secret. They needed to work this out on their own.

“I can’t tell you. Not yet. It’s too new. And… and things are… erm, touchy… at the moment. I don’t want to say anything yet… just in case…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

Lips pressed into a hard line, Hermione studied Ginny with worried eyes, but after a long moment, she just shook her head. “You know I’m here if you need me.”

Ginny gratefully accepted the momentary reprieve. “I know. Thanks. But that’s not why you were looking for me, was it?”

Hermione sighed. “No, nothing so earth shattering. I can’t find the scarf I bought for Mum. I was wondering if it got mixed in with your packages.”

Ginny ran through a mental inventory of the gifts still draping every surface in Harry’s sitting room. She knew right where the scarf was. “I’ll have a look. Want me to bring it Sunday?”

“Could you owl it to me? I want to get everything wrapped toni—” She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming in today.”

That had to be Harry. So, he could’ve stayed home. Ginny barely managed to wipe the flare of anger and worry from her face before Hermione turned back.

“You’d think he’d be in a better mood after such a successful raid yesterday,” she muttered, then seemed to remember Ginny was there. “I have to go. Things are mad here. But you and I are going to have a serious discussion in the very near future.”

Before Ginny could respond, the fire died, and with a weary groan, she pushed herself off the floor. Things were getting much too complicated. And she didn’t have a clue what to think about Harry. What if he’d changed his mind? What if…

A rhythmic knock on the door made her groan even louder. Talk about complicated. She _really_ wasn’t ready to face this yet.

Ginny opened the door only wide enough to frame her face. “Hello, George.”

Ignoring her not-so-subtle message, he pushed his way in and whirled on her, hands on his hips. “Where have you been?”

Ginny mirrored his stance. “Well, Mum, I didn’t realize I had to ask permission every time I left my own flat.”

He scowled. “You didn’t come home last night.”

“What? I’ve got a curfew now, too? Maybe I should look for a place to live that doesn’t have so many rules.” She stalked past him, grabbed her laundry, and headed for the scullery off the kitchen.

He followed. “Gin, don’t be like that. I was worried.”

Ginny paused in the process of adding laundry potion to the oversized cauldron and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m a big girl, George. I can spend the night with anyone I want.” _Oh, bugger!_ Nearly biting her tongue in two, Ginny focused on stuffing her clothes in, hoping he hadn’t caught her slip.

No such luck.

“Ah, ha! I knew it! You’re dating someone, aren’t you? Who is it? Did O’Leary realize his mistake and come crawling back?”

Starting the washer with a swish of her wand, Ginny rounded on George and pointed it at his nose. He backed away, eyes huge, hands in the air.

She took a menacing step toward him, deciding to stick with the story she’d already concocted—if asked, Kelby would verify it. “ _Not_ that it’s any of your business, but I spent the night on Kelby’s couch. Even if that weren’t the case, you gave up your right to nose into my love life when you tried to manipulate me and Liam at the wedding.”

George had the grace to look ashamed, but he turned pleading eyes on her. “Gin, you know I only had your best interests at heart. And it turned out all right, didn’t it? I mean that wanker—”

“The _point_ is…” Ginny poked him in the chest with her wand. “I’m an adult. I can take care of myself. And I can fall in love with anyone… I… want.” She punctuated the last three words with little jabs that backed him into the sitting room, and finished with an extra hard one. “ _You_ don’t get a say in the matter. Understand?”

He rubbed at his chest, the hurt in his eyes palpable. “You know I’m an over-protective prat only because I care about you. I feel closer to you than anyone in the family now that…” He swallowed and drew a deep breath. “I just can’t bear to see you hurting and if it’s in my power to protect you, well, I’ve got to try.”

Ginny’s irritation melted away. She’d do everything she could to protect George just the same. But, still…

“George, you can’t keep all of the pain away. That’s what I tried to do before—shut out all the pain—and you know how well that worked. Life is about the good _and_ the bad. You can’t have one without the other or you’re not really living. And sometimes the pain really is worth the final reward.” Her arms wrapped around his waist and he hugged her close as she spoke against his chest. “Let me live, George. Let me make my own choices and bear my own pain. Just be here for me when it gets to be too much.” She leaned away to look into his eyes. “Just trust me. Please?”

He heaved a sigh and pulled her back against him. “Yeah, I trust you. But when you pick a bloke, don’t be surprised if I _encourage_ him to be good to you.”

Ginny smiled. “And that would be different from my other brothers, how?” She squealed and tried to pull away when he goosed her ribs.

“I have ways to make my point that they couldn’t begin to dream of.”

“Yeah, well, just remember that I have my own ways of retaliating if you get carried away.”

George hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head, his voice growing serious. “I know, Ginnikins. Just be careful, yeah?”

She nodded against his chest and gave him a squeeze. Maybe George would handle things better than she’d thought.

***

Harry didn’t have to pretend to be grouchy. In fact, being a complete bastard came too easily. Hermione’s terse reminder about the importance of international relations finally tempered his mood to an acceptable level, but only just. By four o’clock, she’d had enough.

“Harry!” He drew up short as she blocked his path to the door from their commandeered office in the French village. “I know you’re upset that Dolohov escaped again, but you’ve got to stop acting like a petulant child.” She swung her arms wide. “We’ve had a huge victory here! More than a hundred people are free. Nearly fifty Death Eaters are in custody. And we’re learning loads about the cloaking spell so we might be able to free the other captive villages. Those men out there look up to you. You should be praising them, building them up for the next battle, not treating them like they haven’t got two brain cells to rub together. You’re worse than Snape!”

Oh, that hurt. No matter how much better Harry understood the greasy git, Snape had been a nasty piece of work. But the insult wouldn’t have hit home if it weren’t deserved. Now, if only all of those things were the real problem.

Harry heaved a weary sigh and ran his fingers under his glasses. “You’re right. Sorry.”

When he opened his eyes again, Hermione was watching him with a mixture of exasperation and concern. “What’s wrong? I know it’s more than just losing Dolohov and not hearing from your contact. Talk to me. Please.”

Slumping onto the edge of the desk, Harry laid his glasses aside so he could properly scrub at his face. Talk to her. Merlin, what he wouldn’t give to do just that, to pick her massive brain for a logical answer to the arguments running circles in his head and beg for her blessing to do what was easy instead of what was right, just this once.

But that would be the easy choice, too, wouldn’t it? To lay his burden on Hermione’s shoulders by spilling his guts about Ginny? Besides, if he were going to do what he _knew_ was right and walk away, telling anyone about their week together would be completely wrong. He could at least show Ginny enough respect to let her make the decision whether or not to say something after he was gone. But surely she would tell Hermione, wouldn’t she? And Hermione had been _his_ best friend first, the sister his parents hadn’t had the chance to give him. Maybe…

“Madame Weasley?” Harry jerked his head up. One of the French fighters stood at the open door. “We have discovered an interesting phenomenon. You may wish to come and see.”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The man gave them a half-bow and left.

“Harry.” Funny how she could scold with such a caressing tone. “You look completely knackered and I daresay you’re not fully healed yet. Go home. Take a pain potion and some Dreamless Sleep.” Her lips twitched—was she fighting a smirk? “Just snuggle up in bed with… something warm and get some rest. Scott and I can handle things here.”

For a moment, Harry wondered if she might have sussed out his secrets, but just the mention of his lingering ailments instantly clouded his brain with fatigue and triggered aches in places he didn’t know he had. Sighing in defeat, he pushed himself up and returned her hug, savoring the comfort of her embrace. Before he was ready, she pulled away, handed him his glasses, and guided him outside toward the building next door.

“Go and get a Portkey. The last thing you need right now is to splinch yourself trying to Apparate home. I don’t want to see you again until supper tomorrow night. I’ll fill you in on everything then.”

It was nearly half five when Harry finally stepped out of the Floo into his kitchen. The house was dark. And quiet. Unnervingly so. A hesitant _Homenum revelio_ confirmed that he was alone and made his stomach flip. He’d never considered that Ginny might not be here. She’d said she would have supper waiting, hadn’t she? What if she’d changed her mind?

Although he _was_ early for a change.

That was it. She was just out… doing whatever she did while he was gone. Not that he believed she sat around all day waiting for him, but her absence was unsettling. Like all the air had been sucked from the house. He shook off the notion as ridiculous. This wasn’t the first time he’d come home to an empty house and it probably wouldn’t be the last… but he still didn’t like it.

Harry trudged up the stairs, so focused on putting one foot ahead of the other that he didn’t notice his path growing brighter until he’d nearly reached the top. Slowing to a stop, he looked around in wonder. Fairy lights flitted lazily amid yards and yards of garland draped over the doors and along the stair rail, illuminating the entry hall and sending his heavy heart fluttering back to life. Ginny had been here at some point.

Or maybe not.

A vague memory drifted from the back of his mind—this had all been here last night. He’d just been too upset to pay attention. Lifting his hand to one of the pine boughs, he absently let a couple of the fairies dance around his fingers, then followed one with his eyes as she flitted up to a sprig of mistletoe suspended in mid-air over the space where he usually Apparated in… the place where he’d held Ginny as she sobbed her terror into his chest. How different that scene could’ve been if—

 _No._ He shook off the what-ifs. Dwelling on them had never done any good.

Flicking the fairies away, he fled from his thoughts up the stairs. But at the next landing, something out of place caught his eye through the sitting room door. He stopped on the threshold and gazed around in awe.

Even more fairy-lit garland cast a soft glow over a mountain of toys burying the sofa and what must be Christmas gifts for the entire Wizarding World displayed on every other surface in the room. The only piece of furniture available for use was his chair, but even that wasn’t completely unadorned—draped over the back was a jewel-toned scarf, much like the one he’d bought for Ginny that day in London.

Merlin, had that been only a week ago?

As Harry sank mindlessly into his chair, the scarf fluttered down over his shoulder. He plucked it off and wove it through his fingers, marveling at how much the silky feel reminded him of Ginny’s hair. With a quiet groan, he dropped his head back and closed his eyes.

What was he supposed to do? They’d come too far to back out of this without both of them getting hurt, but moving forward might make matters worse.

Time dragged while Harry’s thoughts took Bludger practice in his head. Little by little, he became aware of the silence, broken only by the steady _snick, snick_ of the mantel clock. When the grandfather clock chimed seven times, he noticed the chill seeping into his bones that had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn’t lit the fire.

This was how it used to be. Him, all alone, in this tomb of a house.

This was how it would be again… if she didn’t come back.

What if, like before, she’d decided that the obstacles were too great? That she’d be happier without him?

But that was what he wanted, right? For her to be happy, no matter what she decided? He threaded the scarf through his fingers, over and over, concentrating on the silken caress to keep his mind away from questions that he couldn’t answer honestly.

When the clock bonged the half hour, the possibility that she might not come back became very real. His insides twisted and his throat grew thick. Breathing became a struggle. He pulled the scarf tight enough to strangle the blood-flow in his hand, focusing on the pain to keep from dissolving into an emotional puddle.

A brief eternity ticked by before he heard a muffled commotion in the entry and hurried footsteps headed toward the kitchen. Clicking his wand into his hand on reflex, he stole silently downstairs, heart in his throat, afraid to hope.

He stopped in the shadows and sagged against the wall with a silent, shuddering sigh. Re-holstering his wand, he allowed himself the pleasure of just watching her while he waited for the tension in his gut to ease.

Merlin, she was beautiful, even in her ancient Weasley sweater and ragged jeans. Puffing in irritation at several strands of hair that had come loose from the messy knot at the back of her head, she flitted about the kitchen, grumbling to herself and orchestrating dinner preparations with her wand. Pots and pans soared from cabinets to the stove, knives started chopping vegetables and meat, and dishes floated gently to the table. Dodging and weaving her way through them all, she attended to details with the same effortless grace she used on the pitch.

Out of the blue, Harry was struck by the profound normality of the scene, along with an overwhelming need to imprint it on his mind. It seemed a vision of an unlikely future and he really ought to store the memory away for the time when he wouldn’t be able to view it first-hand. Because he knew the day was coming. It might not be today, or even tomorrow. But it _would_ come.

And he knew with sudden clarity that _he_ wouldn’t be the one to bring it about… no matter how “right” that would be. He just didn’t have it in him to willingly walk away again. And if she told him to go, he would fight—or, more likely, beg—to be allowed to stay.

So there it was. A decision. Maybe the wrong one, but a decision, nonetheless—even though the final decision was really hers.

As the meat and vegetable “fantasia” came to an end, he watched her swipe an arm across her brow and frown into the pot, her mind obviously miles away.

_Now what?_

They needed to talk. Or so she’d said. Right. Facing a dragon might be more pleasant… or more survivable. He squeezed his fist and was surprised to find the scarf still woven through his fingers, cutting into his skin. The pain cleared his head a bit. He could do this.

Silently, he stepped down into the light at the end of the stairs, willing his fears into submission, determined to hang on for as long as she’d let him.

***

Ginny ducked under the stream of chopped vegetables making their way into the pot of broth and aimed her wand to turn up the fire underneath it. If she could get the stew going, she might have time to dash upstairs for a quick shower. The last thing she wanted was to appear disheveled and flustered when Harry got home. Merlin, she hated being late! But Madam Mason and several of the children were sick and Ginny just couldn’t bear to leave until she’d got the younger ones settled for the night. Time had just got away from her.

As busy as she’d been, though, her mind had been on Harry all day. They needed to talk... badly. But if his mood this morning was any indication, she was going to have to wait for the right moment or risk pushing him away altogether. _Bollocks!_ She’d known he wouldn’t take it well when he found out she was still battling demons, but letting him find her like that last night was definitely not the best way to break the news. Especially after what he’d endured.

When the final bit of beef had plopped into the pot, Ginny swiped an arm across her sweaty forehead and blindly watched the meat and vegetables dance amongst the bubbles for a moment. How was she ever going to make him understand why she couldn’t control her terror for his safety when she didn’t understand it herself? Besides...

Movement in her peripheral vision sent her heart to her throat. Whirling, she pointed her wand at the steps… then lowered it with a relieved laugh. “Harry! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

He quirked a tiny smile and muttered “sorry,” but didn’t move from the stairs, just shifted from one foot to the other as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Before she could talk herself out of it, she walked over and pulled him down for a kiss. He hesitated only a second before responding with the same hint of desperation he’d had last night.

Okay. Good. Better than this morning, anyway. He seemed uncertain, but not completely closed off. Maybe they’d be able to talk after all.

Leaning back so she could see his face, she ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and gave him a teasing smile. “We need some sort of chime for when you Apparate in. You gave me a bit of a fright.”

He shrugged and tugged her close again so he could nuzzle her neck. “Wouldn’t have helped. I’ve been here a while.”

His mouth made it back to hers and thought stopped for a while. But something was off. Even though his kisses were hungry, his hands stroked only places her mother would approve.

Ginny pulled away and cupped his cheek with her hand so she could see his eyes. She’d spent too many years reading his expressions to believe the innocent questions she saw there. Something was very wrong. But how to bring it up? Hermione’s description, months ago, of Harry as a spooked hippogriff was spot on. Best to act as normally as possible until he bowed. Ginny was careful to keep her voice light and her smile warm. “So, how long have you been home?” She tugged at his red robe. “You didn’t change.”

He shrugged again and kneaded her shoulders a couple of times before dropping his hands to her arms and guiding her back a step so he could move fully into the room. “Dunno. Couple hours, I guess.”

She tiptoed to give him one last chaste kiss, then walked back to the stove to give the stew an unnecessary stir and allow him a bit of space until he sorted himself. He leaned a hip against the counter to watch, toying with a bit of colorful cloth in his hand.

“What’s that?” Ginny asked, pointing with the spoon before setting it aside.

He seemed surprised when he looked at his hand. “Oh! Erm…” Unfurling a scarf, now twisted and crinkled like a discarded candy wrapper, he frowned. “Bugger. That was a Christmas gift, wasn’t it?”

Ginny tried to stifle her giggle at his dismay. “Hermione bought it for her mum. She Floo-called today looking for it.”

With a groan, he thunked his head onto the upper cabinet door. “Reckon I’ll have to go and find one to replace it.”

“Give it here. I might be able to salvage it.” Holding one corner, Ginny sent a gentle spray of steam from her wand down the length of the scarf. By the third pass, it was wrinkle free. She spread it carefully on the table, smoothing it back to its original shape to fully dry. “There. I think it’ll be okay.”

Harry wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and rested his chin on her head. “My hero.”

Ginny craned her neck around to steal another kiss before settling back against his chest. “Want to tell my why you were molesting a scarf?”

He stiffened slightly, but his voice was even when he finally spoke. “It was on my chair. I don’t really remember picking it up. Did you buy presents for the _whole_ Wizarding World?”

He was changing the subject, but she was quite capable of reading between the lines—he’d been doing some heavy thinking. The fact that he was still here spoke volumes about the outcome, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it. She struggled not to ask anyway and took several moments to remember that he’d asked a question. “Well, not the _whole_ world. Just the half that’s somehow related to the Weasleys and Potters… oh, and the children at the home. But be glad I decided that you and I are giving gifts as a couple or there’d be twice as many.”

He did freeze then, and released her to walk over and stare down into the stew pot, one hand pushed roughly into his hair. “We’re giving gifts as a couple? Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Ginny’s heart nearly stopped. Oh, Merlin, what had he been thinking about? “I... yes.” She cleared her throat and forced confidence into her voice. “Yes, I do. Don’t you?”

He turned and searched her face for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, but… I just… maybe it’s too soon… to tell everyone. Maybe we should give it some more time.”

Sod waiting for him to come around. “Why?”

He ran his other hand through his hair and finally turned, arms crossed, to face her. “Last night. After last night, I think… maybe we should give it more time.”

Ginny fought to keep the panic from her voice. “What? You think we can’t work through this? Are you planning to leave again?”

He dropped his head as he shook it. His voice was nearly non-existent when he looked back up. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless…” He focused back on the floor.

“You think I’m going to send you away again?” She rushed to hug him. He reluctantly unfolded his arms to hold her. “Harry, no. I wouldn’t do that. Not again. Never again.” He relaxed only fractionally—he didn’t believe her. She leaned back to look up at him. “I know it won’t be easy, but if we can work through it together… Healer Andrews suggested we go to couple’s counsel—”

“No!” He moved away from her at Disapparition speed.

She gaped across the kitchen at his back as he stared into the fire. When he turned around, the hurt and anger must’ve shown on her face because his shoulders slumped and he ran weary fingers under his glasses as he spoke more softly. “I’m sorry, Gin, but I can’t. I’ll… you… you do what you need to do.” He moved his hands to look at her, his jaw flexing in an all too familiar sign of determination to do something he didn’t really want. “Talk to your Healer about me, if you need to. And I’ll… I’ll do anything else I can to help. But I can’t go.”

“Can’t or won’t?” She couldn’t keep the bitter note from her voice. She wasn’t asking him to change his life, quit his career, share his secrets with the world. Did he even want them to work as a couple? How could they get past this if he wasn’t willing to do even this one small thing? He pressed his lips together and refused to meet her gaze. “Why, Harry? How can—”

Her throat closed, cutting off her words as he snatched the Galleon from his neck, glanced at it, then gave her an apologetic look.

“I have to go.”

Ice began pumping through her veins. Her terror must’ve shown.

He growled. “You can’t stay here alone.” Before she could blink, he snatched the scarf from the table and Apparated the two of them to Ron and Hermione’s garden. Tucking the scarf into her frozen hand, he gave her a gentle kiss. “Go inside. Hermione’s worked it out anyway. Tell her I’ll be where we were camping when Ron came back, and to come looking if I’m not back in an hour. If I’m not there, I’ll leave a trail, if I can.”

Before Ginny could process the meaning of his words, he had given her a prod toward the door and Disapparated.

_I’ll leave a trail, if I can._

_Oh, Merlin!_ Pressing her hand to her mouth to hold back a sob, she dashed for the door.


	55. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the truth is out, how do Harry and Ginny close the gap between duty and sanity?

A passing cloud hid the slash of moon, cloaking the Forest of Dean in tangible darkness. Harry stopped behind a tree a short distance from their clearing to assess the situation and let his eyes adjust. Dread slithered down his spine. Why had Malfoy changed the meeting place? Something was definitely off.

Of course, he’d been careful to hide his worry from Ginny, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. The timing of Malfoy’s summons couldn’t have been worse. Gritting his teeth at the way his stomach knotted, Harry squashed his concerns—Hermione would see to her. Right now, he needed to keep his wits about him.

The movement behind him barely registered. Harry whirled and came wand-tip to wand-tip with Malfoy.

“What did I throw at you in the cottage in that Hungarian village?” Malfoy’s whisper was almost too soft to hear.

Harry answered just as quietly without thinking. “A walnut.”

“Check me for tracking spells.”

Brows rising at the command, Harry cast the revealing charm. “Clear.”

“Hang on.”

The squeeze of Apparition stole Harry’s breath. Their feet had barely hit the ground before he twisted Malfoy’s wand arm behind his back. “You didn’t let _me_ ask a question,” Harry growled into his ear.

Malfoy swallowed against the point pressing on his throat. “So, ask.”

“Where did you sit at our first meeting like this?”

Malfoy smirked. “In a mud puddle.”

Harry wiped away the smirk with a slightly vicious shove. While Malfoy fumbled himself back into an arrogant pose, Harry muttered a spell to enhance the weak moonlight so he could make out more detail in the darkness. They stood on the crest of a high hill, the bare branches of an ancient oak clattering overhead in the icy breeze. A stone wall encircled the area, far enough down the hill to see over, but too tall to enter from ground level without coming through the closed ironwork gate. Beyond, silvery blue-greys and blacks painted a vast landscape.

“Where are we?”

Malfoy smoothed one last imaginary wrinkle from his cloak then pointed toward a hulking shadow in the distance. “The Manor. The Ministry hasn’t bollocksed up the blood wards on this section of the property, and _if_ anyone could find a way to follow us, it’s the most defensible position.”

Now that he knew what he was looking at, Harry could see the outline of the great house. Malfoy’s words sank in. “He’s on to you.”

Through the deep shadows, Harry could barely see the worry creased brow, but Malfoy’s voice was steady. “He knows there’s a spy. I think it’s down to Yaxley or me. And I didn’t know about the ambush until after.”

This last, hastily blurted, forestalled Harry’s next question and, though he wasn’t quite sure why, re-instilled some of the trust they’d built over the past months. He lowered his wand. “Why doesn’t he just kill both of you and have done with it?

Malfoy snorted. “He’ll want to make a show of it. Use the traitor as an example for the troops. You’d think he would find it more compelling to use two of us, but there you have it. For all his paranoia and business cunning, he’s not exactly a font of common sense.”

Harry blew out a heavy breath—he was losing his spy. “I reckon you’d best stay at the safe house with your mother, then.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no? You—”

“Just what it sounds like, Potter.” Merlin, Malfoy could sound like a poncey wanker. “Even your pea brain should be able to comprehend such a basic word. No. You’re not sticking me in a bloody safe house. I’m not hiding behind my mother’s robes.”

Harry searched through the darkness but could make out only the ghostly pale jut of chin and a brief flash of lighter shadow where Malfoy’s eyes should be as he turned them to look over the Manor.

“I’m not the terrified idiot I was sixth year,” Malfoy continued, his voice less arrogant, but just as steely. “It’s long past time I took control of my life. I’m tired of being everyone’s House Elf—yours included. But, no, I’m not giving notice as your spy. Not yet, at least.”

Harry studied him a moment, searching Malfoy’s silhouette for any sign of doubt. “All right, then,” Harry said at last. “But we have to come up with an escape plan for you. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to tell your mother that you were killed trying to play the hero.”

The twist of Malfoy’s lips was barely discernible. “What, afraid I’ll usurp your position as the Wizarding World’s Golden Boy?”

Harry snorted. “Have at it. It’s all yours.”

He was almost certain Malfoy fought back a smile. “I’ll go along with an escape plan. I’m no fool.”

Harry snorted again. “Yeah, well…” With a yelp, he jumped away from the Stinging Hex that hit his foot. “Wanker.”

Malfoy’s smirk seemed almost playful and Harry wondered for a moment how different their lives could have been if Malfoy hadn’t been such an arrogant little shit when they’d first met… and if Harry hadn’t been so defensive. They might’ve actually become friends.

Right. Maybe in some bizarre alternate universe… 

“Actually, I have a plan,” Malfoy broke into Harry’s errant thoughts. “But it’ll be tricky. You’ll have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Harry crossed his arms and leaned back against the tree, his gaze roaming the countryside below. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Malfoy struck a similar pose. “Here’s what I was thinking…”

***

Ginny stared into her tepid tea, bouncing her leg while Ron and Hermione chatted about their day and worked their way through the cartons of takeaway. Ginny had refused to eat; she’d never keep it down. Even so, they’d forced her into a chair and were trying to distract her by pretending that everything was okay. She had to admit that the waiting was easier here than alone in that big empty house... but only a bit, because everything wasn’t okay. Harry was out there somewhere with a potential murd— _No!_ She had to stop this!

Shoving her tea away hard enough to slop it over the rim of the mug, she popped from her chair to pace between the table and the garden door. Harry was fine and she had to get control of herself before he came back. She had to show him she could be strong in a crisis.

“He’s been gone only a few minutes.”

Of course Hermione would misinterpret her agitation, but Ginny looked over her shoulder at the clock, anyway. Twenty-four minutes. Two minutes later than the last time she’d checked.

“He’s fine, Ginny. Come and sit back down.”

Hermione’s tone was soothing—she meant well—but the words still exploded in Ginny’s brain like one of George’s fireworks. She whirled and stomped her foot. “Damn it! How can you both just sit there like that? How can you not be worried? We don’t know where he’s gone or who he’s with or—”

In a heartbeat, Hermione was in front of Ginny, giving her a hard shake. “Stop it! Just stop, right now!”

Startled, Ginny froze—this wasn’t how she’d meant to react. What had happened to being in control? Maybe she really was losing it. Drawing a deep breath, she held up her hands and stepped out of Hermione’s grasp. “I’m fine. Sorry. I just…” She sucked in another breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

As she forced herself to walk calmly back to her chair, she didn’t miss the look of concern that passed between her brother and his wife. _Good work, Ginny._ _Now they really think you’ve gone round the twist._

Folding her hands on the table, she became the picture of composure as she looked at Ron. “I don’t understand why you can’t go after him to provide back-up. You could hide in the shadows. He wouldn’t even have to know you were there.”

Darting a quick look at Hermione, Ron sighed. “Can’t do it, Gin.”

Through sheer determination, Ginny remained calm. “I thought you were his friend.”

Ron’s lips thinned and Hermione took one of Ginny’s hands—boils from Bubotuber Pus would’ve been less irritating—and gave her a steady look. “We _are_ his friends, but, in this case, we’re also his subordinates. He’s shown a lot of trust just by telling us where he’ll be. He _has_ to go alone to protect the anonymity of his informant. If we follow him, we’ll not only be failing to follow orders, we’ll be breaking Harry’s trust, not to mention possibly frightening away his spy, or even worse, putting them both in danger.”

“He knows what he’s doing, Gin,” Ron said. “He’s always been good at this stuff, but now, after being out in the field for so long, he really is the best. And believe it or not, he does ask for help when he needs it.”

“We trust him,” Hermione said, stroking Ginny’s arm. “Don’t you?”

Ginny blinked. At one time, she _had_ trusted Harry without question. But now everything had changed… and she couldn’t even say why. She swiped at her blurry eyes—where had those tears come from? Merlin, she really _was_ going barmy!

“Don’t worry. He’ll be back before you know it.” The words were gentle, but they rankled; Hermione could be so patronizing.

Ginny snatched her hand away and jammed her fingers into her hair, knocking the disheveled mess free of its clip to tumble down her shoulders. She _knew_ Harry would be back. She _did_. Hermione had no right to treat her like a child. Although, she was angrier at herself than at Hermione, but how could she pass up such a willing target?

A steaming mug placed on the table under her nose brought Ginny back to the kitchen. Closing her eyes, she took a cleansing breath. Now was not the time to turn her family against her. She needed to prove to everyone—herself included—that she could get through this.

Hermione settled back into her chair and took a sip from her own mug. “So. You and Harry… about a week, right?”

Hermione was either brave or stupid to keep trying, but the diversion was working and Ginny couldn’t hold onto her anger. Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

Ron’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He glared at Hermione. “Oi! You knew and didn’t tell me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I only just suspected until this morning and this is the first time I’ve seen you since. Ginny came in before I had a chance to say anything.”

He set his fork down. “You could’ve said you suspected.”

Ginny wrapped her hands around her mug to draw from its warmth while their bickering faded into background noise. What did it matter who knew what when? Nothing mattered beside Harry coming back safely. And just like that, her panic tried once more to ooze from the recesses of her mind.

But before things could get too far, Hermione’s voice snatched her back to reality. “So, the story in the _Prophet_ last week about the two of you being a couple… it was true, then?”

Grasping at the distraction like a lifeline, Ginny curled her lips in the semblance of a smile. “He invited himself along for Christmas shopping, and Jinks and Skeeter followed us into Muggle London. They got pictures, but Harry disintegrated their camera.”

Hermione nodded. “And without visual proof, the story was just another rumor. Except that it wasn’t.”

“Well, sort of.” Ginny closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the memory. “I guess to anyone watching, we looked like we were together, but it was mostly just an act. You know how he’s been the past month—friendly one minute, distant the next. That day he decided we were friends, and I just decided to go with it. But after we got back to his place…”

“You talked, right?” Hermione looked deadly serious.

Ginny snorted. “Erm, no.”

“No details!” Ron said around a mouthful.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “But you have talked since.” It was more demand than question.

Ginny wearily propped her head on her hand. “Yes, we’ve talked.”

“What did he say about…” Hermione vaguely gestured at Ginny.

Pushing away the temptation to pretend confusion, Ginny sighed. “We haven’t really got to _that_. At least not all of it. He didn’t know the whole of it until he got home last night and found me on the stairs.” Hermione’s lips compressed into a line and her eyes darkened with concern. Ginny ducked her head. “Yeah, I know. Not the best way to break it to him.”

Ron put his fork down again—a sign of unusual attentiveness—but let Hermione carry on the interrogation. “I suppose he didn’t take it well?” she asked.

Ginny’s laugh was more of a grunt. “Define ‘well.’ He didn’t leave or toss me out, so I guess you could say it went as well as it could.”

“I supposed that explains his mood today,” Hermione said with a sigh before turning her searching gaze back on Ginny. “But you _are_ going to talk, aren’t you?”

Ginny ran a weary hand over her face. “Yes… I think so… Well, we’d started to, just before…” And the reason she was sitting here slammed back to the front of her mind. She sneaked a look at the clock. Thirty-three minutes. Her leg bounced again, keeping pace with the frantic beat of her heart.

Hermione laid a hand on Ginny’s arm. “Ginny, this is important. You really have to talk this out before—”

“You think I don’t know that?” The rage was back; Ginny jumped up to pace. “We will. We just haven’t had time, all right? It’s only been a week. We’ve had a _lot_ of things to discuss.”

Even looking suitably chagrinned, Hermione just couldn’t stop herself. “I thought you had this under control.”

“I do!” Ginny looked away from Hermione’s raised eyebrow. “I did.” She huffed an angry breath. “I thought I did… but then he got home so late last night and he was hurt and I just… I lost it, all right? It was just too much!”

Hermione studied her quietly for a moment. “Have you thought about couple’s counseling?”

Ginny’s sharp exhale was bitter. “He won’t even discuss it.”

Ron barked a laugh. “Well, of course not.”

“Did he tell you that?” Hermione asked, outraged.

“Didn’t have to.” Ron shrugged and leaned on his forearms when Ginny and Hermione gaped at him. “Can you imagine what it’s like living in his head? He’s a Mind Healer’s bloody wet dream. Of course he’s not going to give them a chance to label him a nutter and pull him from the field.”

Hermione’s brow crinkled. “Well, then, why did _you_ agree to go to counseling with _me_?”

“Because you needed me to,” Ron said as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hermione broke into a sappy smile and rewarded him with a gag-worthy kiss—at least that’s what they seemed to be trying to do to each other until Ginny swore (almost) under her breath and they jerked apart as she stomped to the sink to wash her mug. Brilliant. Ron had finally evolved and Harry had reverted to a Flobberworm.

The silence lengthened, but Ginny ignored them as she scrubbed viciously at her cup, positive they were holding a heated “eyebrow discussion,” as Harry called it, behind her back.

Ron finally stood—he must’ve drawn the short straw—and took a couple of steps toward her. “Gin… maybe this … thing with Harry … maybe it isn’t such a good idea… not now, at least.”

Oh, right! Now they were treating her like she had a head full of Wrackspurts. Slamming the water off, she let the mug clatter dangerously into the sink, then whirled to find them watching her as if they expected her to break into a million pieces at any moment. Ron took another step forward, palms outstretched, but Ginny had had enough.

“No! You’re not doing this again. I’m fine. Or I will be once Harry and I can work through this. I’m not going to let you get in the way this time. This is _our_ business. No one but Harry and I get to say what we’re going to do. And I’ll be buggered if I’m going to stand here and listen to you both treat me like I’m some damsel in distress or… or… two steps from a shackled bed in the Thickey Ward.” No matter that she wondered if that part were true. “Coming here was a mistake. I don’t have to stay here and listen to this anymore.”

“Ginny, wait!”

But whatever Hermione wanted was lost in the void of Disapparition.

***

The air in the kitchen was thick with tension when Harry walked in. Ron and Hermione were frozen in a confrontational pose but they turned their respective expressions— Hermione pleading, Ron furious—on Harry as his eyes swept the room. His heart plummeted.

“Where’s Ginny?”

Ron moved like lightning, grabbing the front of Harry’s robes. Surprised, Harry just barely managed to block the punch thrown at his face.

“I warned you about messing her around, didn’t I?” Ron drew his arm back to take another shot, but lost momentum when Hermione latched onto his elbow.

“Ron, stop! This isn’t helping!”

Shaking free of Ron’s grip, Harry faced them, legs braced, fists ready. Ron jerked away from Hermione and stomped across the room. Harry looked at Hermione, and repeated through his clenched jaw. “Where… is… Ginny?”

Averting her eyes from his glare, Hermione sighed. “Grimmauld Place… most likely.”

Harry struggled to contain his fury, although his voice didn’t quite get the message. “Most likely? You don’t know?” he shouted. “I brought her here so you could look after her. How could you—”

“Calm down!” Hermione threw up her hands. “She left just a moment ago. I haven’t checked to be sure, but I think that’s where she’d go.”

With a growl, Harry turned toward the door. Hermione leapt forward to grab his arm, but it didn’t matter—his feet wouldn’t move. Twisting around, he found Ron’s wand pointed his direction, and before his brain caught up, he’d drawn his own wand, cancelled the freezing charm, and taken a dueling stance.

Hermione moved forward, arms outstretched between them. “STOP! Ron, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of my sister,” Ron answered, never taking his eyes from Harry. “That’s why he brought her here, isn’t it? She’s not ready for this, so I’m making sure he can’t hurt her again.”

The cold zoomed from Harry’s feet toward his chest. His fingers grew numb around his wand and his voice almost refused to work. “What happened?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ron spoke over her. “She’s a right mess, is what happened, crying one minute, screaming the next, and unnervingly calm in between. I don’t know what you’ve been doing to her, but you need to just back off!”

Raking his fingers into his hair, Harry closed his eyes and slumped against the door. “I was afraid of this. I—”

Hermione slammed a hand onto the table and shouted, “WOULD YOU TWO SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME?” She whirled on Ron. “ _You_... are the one who needs to BACK… OFF! Not three minutes ago, Ginny told you this is none of your business and she doesn’t want to be treated like a damsel in distress. She won’t thank you one bit for attacking Harry or warning him off. Just let it go before you live to regret it!” Satisfied with Ron’s cowed look, Hermione turned on Harry. “And you! What in God’s name possessed you to refuse couple’s counseling NOW? You’d best be willing to do _whatever_ it takes, if you really want this to work.”

Harry turned his glare to the fire, jaw flexing. She was right, as always, but he’d be damned if he’d admit it to her right now.

“I can’t believe you, Harry Potter. How in the world do you expect this to work—”

“Hermione!” Harry cut her off. “Save it. It’s none of your business, either.” He steeled himself against the hurt that washed across her face. “Right now, I just need to find her.” And without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

Almost before he’d completely appeared in his entry hall, he was shouting up the stairs, “Ginny! Ginny, where are you?” No answer. He flung out a _Revelio_ and swore in frustration when it came back empty.

Stomach churning, he deliberately pushed away the demons conjuring horrific scenarios in his head. Surely she wouldn’t… _No!_ Refusing to even consider it, he dug his fingers through his hair and pulled. “Think, Harry. Where would she go?”

In a heartbeat, he turned and reappeared at the foot of the steps leading to Ginny’s flat in the alley behind Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Golden light flooding from the window of the downstairs workroom forced Harry into the shadows; no point alarming George if Ginny wasn’t home… or even if she was—the confrontation would be less pleasant than the one with Ron. 

He made quick, silent work of the stairs, then checked the door for security wards—only one was beyond standard and even it had been sloppily cast, as if someone had been in a hurry. Making a mental note to reinforce them later, he eased the door open and called softly into the darkness. “Ginny?” He cast the revealing spell, even though the flat held the musty scent and hollow sound of a home left unattended—in his experience, usually the sign of foul play. His heart stuttered. _No!_ Not here. Just a sign that she’d been sleeping in another bed. His bed.

His breath came more easily and, in spite of his urgency to continue the search, he took a moment to look around. He hadn’t been in this flat since Fred and George lived here. The place now had Ginny written all over it—comfortable-looking furniture, fancy throw pillows, classy art, soft colors. It looked homey. A place where he’d love to spend hours curled on the couch, just being with each other. Shaking off the temptation to see her bedroom, he ran his mind through other places she could’ve gone.

Invisibility-cloaked searches of the Burrow, Shell Cottage, the children’s home, and the Glowing Goblet turned up empty. He considered sending her a Patronus, but wasn’t sure she knew the charm to send a response and didn’t want to drive her deeper into hiding—he was convinced, by now, that’s what she was doing. Unwilling to give in to his rising panic and incur more of her family’s wrath—or hers—by organizing a search party at this point, he forced himself into Auror mode.

“Come on, Harry. How would you find someone?” _A Tracking Charm_. Yes! Now all he needed was something of Ginny’s and he was set. In an instant, he appeared in his bedroom… and froze.

She was curled in the window seat, her back against the side enclosure, knees drawn to her chest as she stared through the blackened panes. Her broom propped on the wall next to her drew a strangled gasp from his throat.

She snorted without looking at him. “So they got to you, did they? Convinced you I’m completely barmy and ready to take a swan dive from my broom, yeah? I reckon you’re as ready as they are to ship me off to St. Mungo’s.”

Harry beat back the flush of shame he hoped she couldn’t see in the window reflection. “No,” he croaked, then closed his eyes when she turned toward him and raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Yeah, it crossed my mind. But I couldn’t find you and after last night…”

She looked away again, anger and disgust etched in the line of her shoulders. Harry took a tentative step forward. “So. Did you go flying?”

Resting her head against the window, she sighed. “Yeah. I needed to clear my head.”

Harry fidgeted, uncertain about how to approach her. The last thing he wanted was to send her running. “Did it work?”

In the reflection of the black glass, he could see her eyes close in defeat. “No.” He opened his mouth, ready to fill the awkward silence when she spoke over him. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I’m glad you are, too.”

In an instant, she was in front of him, arms wrapped around his waist, head resting against his heart. He let go a heavy sigh of relief and clutched her to him. Laying his cheek on her hair, he inhaled her heady scent and felt his fear drain away. He’d been terrified, not only for her safety, but also that she’d finally come to her senses and decided to send him away. At least for the moment, she seemed ready to let him stay. But her next words set his senses on alert.

“How did your meeting go?”

Merlin, this could change everything. He ran a hopefully soothing hand down her back. “It was fine.”

She pulled back to look him in the eye. “And?”

Might as well get it over with. “We’re going after Dolohov… Monday.”

He wasn’t at all surprised when she jerked away. “Monday! No! That’s too soon. What about Christmas? What about—”

“We have to do it Monday,” Harry said quietly… reluctantly. “It’s our best shot.”

She stared at him for a moment, emotions running through her eyes so quickly he couldn’t keep up. She turned abruptly, arms wrapped around her waist to stare out of the window. Needing to calm her, reassure her, Harry reached out a hand but let it drop. She wouldn’t want him touching her now.

The silence lengthened until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Ginny, please. We need to talk.”

Her voice was strangled, barely a whisper. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

Harry dug his fingers into his hair. “When?”

She rounded on him. “I don’t know! Maybe tomorrow… after my appointment with Healer Andrews.”

Harry couldn’t stop the wave of relief that washed over him—for both the promise of tomorrow and the news of her session with the Healer; from the look on her face, he was certain it showed on his.

Back stiff, she walked toward the bed. “I’m tired. Are you coming to bed?”

They undressed in silence and Harry settled stiffly on the pillow, staring into the canopy, wondering how he was going to get through the night without touching her—he just needed to hold her, for his own comfort, but even more to show her how much he loved her. Amazingly, she curled into his side, her head on his shoulder. With a shuddering sigh, he cuddled her close.

“It’ll be all right, Harry,” she whispered. “I just…”

She never finished what she was going to say, but Harry didn’t care. For this moment, he had all he needed.

***

Harry strode through the nearly empty Atrium, trying hard to clear the chaos in his head. Every sense was on high alert, preparing for the battle ahead. He was going to get Dolohov this time, or die trying.

No. He couldn’t think like that anymore. Before, he’d had no one else to consider, but now… for the moment, at least, he had Ginny and he was determined to be what she needed or die—

 _Bugger!_ He was going to have to work on that. With a sigh he pressed the call button for the lift.

He probably should’ve wakened her to say goodbye this morning, but she looked so peaceful he didn’t have the heart. And he was a coward. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to face the poorly hidden fear and anger in her eyes. Last night, he’d finally understood just how much this could affect their lives. Even if she said he didn’t have to give up being an Auror, he knew he couldn’t drag her—drag them both—through this time and time again. Something—or someone—was going have to give.

But his time to walk away had passed; he’d given his promise. No matter how horrible things were going to get, he was determined to stay through to the inevitable end.

By the time Ron and Hermione got to the office, Harry had his head in the Floo on his third call of the morning, briefing the team leaders on the Continent and setting up an afternoon meeting in Zurich. He finished his conversation and closed the connection; his hand almost made it to the bowl of powder for the next call.

“Harry, wait.”

 _Bollocks._ He’d hoped Hermione would dispense with the lecture this morning. With a sigh, he wearily pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the mantel. “We don’t really have time for this now.”

Hermione huffed. “I was just going to ask how she was doing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. She looked away, cheeks pinking. He couldn’t resist a slight dig. “She’s fine. But she wasn‘t home when I got there. She‘d gone flying.”

“Flying?” Ron looked ready to explode.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Where? Is she—?”

“She’s fine,” Harry said, cutting off a long interrogation. “She was sleeping when I left this morning.”

“So did you talk last night?” Hermione’s voice was hesitant.

“She said she couldn’t,” Harry said, tone clipped. “I left a note for her this morning, telling her that we weren’t planning anything dangerous today, that I’d be late getting home this evening, and that she shouldn’t wait for me alone. I’ll try to find time to send an owl later today. Does all of that meet with your approval?”

Ron took a threatening step forward, fists curled, but Hermione stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“They’re adults, Ron. We have to let them work it out.” Her voice was neutral, but brooked no argument. Ron relented, sending Harry a look that plainly said he’d be watching.

Snorting, Harry looked away, refusing to meet the challenge. He’d be disappointed if Ron didn’t try to protect his only sister. But he also knew who’d win in a fight between himself and Ron.

With a warning look at Ron, Hermione stepped between them, facing Harry. “So. Are you going to fill us in on what M… erm, your contact said last night?”

Deciding not to comment on her almost-slip, Harry dropped down on the hearth again and reached for the Floo powder. “Not just yet. I have a few more calls to make and I want to wait for Summers so I have to go through it only once. Right now, the two of you can pull up all of your research on the Portkey amulets Dolohov used in the Quidditch attack. We’re going to turn his own tricks against him.”

By the time Harry finally shook the soot from his hair an hour later, the books and parchment stacked a foot high over half of the conference table nearly hid Hermione, who was frantically scratching away with a quill. Ron looked to be actually reading some of her other notes.

“Where’s Summers?”

Hermione’s head popped up, eyes glazed with whatever problem she’d been working through. Ron shook his head. “Haven’t heard from him.” Hermione must’ve sorted him; he was no longer hostile, if not yet friendly.

“Bloody git,” Harry grumbled, flinging a Patronus through the door before leaning over the table. “What’ve you got?”

Twenty minutes later, Harry was caught up in Hermione’s detailed explanation of the improvements she’d devised for the amulets when Summers stumbled in, clothes rumpled, hair wild, and chin dark with stubble.

“Sorry m’late.” He sprawled into a chair and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Hermione was up in a flash, grabbing his left hand to inspect it. “What’s this? Did you…?”

A shit-eating grin spread across Summers’s face. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Harry saw it, then. A ring. On _that_ finger. The bottom dropped out of the world.

“What, you just up and got married on a Thursday?” Ron asked, amusement in his voice.

“Well, there might’ve been a wee bit of firewhiskey involved.” Summers flushed and flashed another smile. “But I was going to ask her anyway. Had the ring already, even. And when we went out last night, one thing led to another and, well, yeah, we just popped over to Monte Carlo and… yeah. That’s why I had to stick around a bit this morning… to make sure she didn’t regret it and let her know that I didn’t.”

“And she doesn’t regret being foolish enough to get pissed and marry a smarmy git?” Ron said with a smirk.

Summers punched him in the arm. “Watch your mouth, mate. That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

Harry let their excited chatter fade into background noise. The world had tilted and he needed a minute to regain his equilibrium... to get over feelings he couldn’t even identify.

Summers was married. He had a wife. Hell, the way the bastard did things on the fly, he might even have a baby on the way. Everything Harry wanted... everything that he had within reach but would never be able to claim properly. Things that meant Summers wouldn’t be so eager to spend weeks… months… years in the field.

Things that meant when Ginny finally came to her senses and sent him packing, Harry would be truly on his own.

Harry gave himself a mental slap. He was being completely selfish. Of course he was happy for Summers. It was just the shock. He’d had years to prepare for Ron and Hermione finally getting together, but this… he’d never expected a-different-girl-and-sometimes-more-than-one-every-night-Summers to finally settle down, much less to do it out of the blue.

“Harry? Mate? You going to congratulate me?” Summers’s uncertain voice jerked Harry back to attention. And when had they ever called each other by their first names? The ground shifted again.

Harry forced a smile. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… bit of a shock, you know?” He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations. Best wishes. All that rot.”

Summers took the hand and pulled Harry into a one-armed hug. When they drew back, Summers gave him a wry grin. “This is your fault, you know. I remembered what you told me when we were in Russia, about not taking the people you love for granted. You made me want… more.” He paused, gratitude and joy filling his eyes.

Guilt at his own resentment twisted Harry’s gut, but he held onto his composure as Summers continued. “I’d’ve asked you to stand up for me, you know, if we’d done it right. Val thinks her mum might still insist on a proper ceremony, so you will, yeah? Stand up for me, if we do?”

Harry swallowed hard and worked to hold his smile. “Yeah, of course. I’d be honored.”

Summers turned back to Ron and Hermione. “But we’re going to have one hell of a party, either way.”

Hermione laughed and hugged Summers again, while Ron gave Harry a shiver-inducing look over their shoulders. As they all moved to sit around the table once more, Ron paused behind Harry and muttered into his ear. “Don’t even think about it. She’s not ready.”

“I know!” Harry hissed back. “I hadn’t even thought of it.” Until now. Blast Ron for suggesting it; the thought tried to take on a life of its own. Harry squashed it and growled more sharply than he intended, “Let’s get back to business. I need to brief Robards and the Minister, but I have to fill you in first.”

Summers pounded the table in mock anger, his grin back in place. “Yeah, let’s catch this bastard so I can have a proper honeymoon.”

***

Ginny paced the carpet of Healer Andrews’s office, trying to get her thoughts in order.

Emotionally, the morning had been like trying to hang onto a jinxed broom. The momentary panic she’d felt at waking alone had quickly turned to joy at the sight of the charm-warmed tea and sweet note Harry had left sitting next to her wand on the night table. Then, in the bathroom, she’d battled simultaneous relief and disappointment at learning that their unprotected reunion the previous week hadn’t resulted in a new little Potter. (Thank Merlin for menstrual charms so Harry wouldn’t be grossed out.) And just now, she had relived the past two days of emotional upheaval for Healer Andrews’s impassive enjoyment. She was worn out and the day had barely begun.

Now, she pulled at her hair and wailed, “I feel like I’m going completely mad! One minute I’m terrified, the next I’m angry, the next I could sit down and cry. What’s wrong with me?”

Healer Andrews smiled; Ginny wanted to slap her. “You’re healing.”

Ginny stopped in her tracks. “What?”

“Are you able to rein in the panic?”

Thoughts racing, Ginny’s eyes widened. “Yes. Sometimes.”

“And the anger. Is it at yourself or other people?”

In wonder, Ginny sank back into her chair. “Mostly for me. But I direct it at whoever’s closest.”

The Healer’s smile widened. “Very good! The mood swings are indicative of more awareness and control of your emotions. It’s a sign that you’re improving.”

Ginny mulled over the Healer’s words. “But I’m still so frightened for him.”

“Of course you are. But you’re able to function around it, yes?”

With a sigh, Ginny nodded and got up to pace again. “I just don’t want to lose him.”

“Do you want Harry to change? To stop being an Auror?”

Jerking to a halt mid-step, Ginny didn’t even think before answering. “Merlin, no!” She softened her voice. “No, I don’t think he _can_ change, but I don’t want him to, anyway. He wouldn’t be Harry anymore.”

Healer Andrews folded her hands in her lap and waited.

Ginny trudged back to her chair and flopped down. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk about it… my panic. Last night, I was so… and today… well, he was gone when I got up and he won’t be home until late. But I already told him I didn’t expect him to quit. This is my problem. He shouldn’t have to change who he is just because I can’t control my demons.”

Healer Andrews hmm-ed and scribbled on her pad a moment before looking up. “You said you haven’t always been this bothered by his willingness to dash into danger. When did that begin?”

Ginny closed her eyes to think, then immediately snapped them open at the image that rose in her mind. “At the final battle,” she said, sitting up and knotting her fingers together between her knees. She stared into the fire without seeing it. “When I thought… I thought he was…” She swallowed back a knot of emotion. “Voldemort was laughing and Harry was just lying there and I… I just…” Her throat closed at the horror brought by the memory, as fresh as on that day. She dragged in several deep breaths to control the surge of emotion.

“Ginny, you do remember he was only pretending to be dead,” Healer Andrews said after several long, silent minutes. “The _Prophet_ said the killing curse narrowly missed him and that Mrs. Malfoy’s confirmation was all it took to make the act convincing.”

With a shake of her head, Ginny rose to stand by the fire, her skin suddenly pebbled with a chill that came deep from within. How much should she say? Harry had told her to talk about whatever she needed to, but this? Hardly anyone knew the truth. Should she really give away his secrets?

“Ginny?” The inquiry was gentle, but insistent.

Ginny hugged herself and paced for a moment, then took a deep breath and faced Healer Andrews. “You can’t tell anyone.”

The Healer nodded calmly. “Of course not. I’m magically bound to keep your confidence. But if it’s something—”

“No, I… he said it would be okay…” She swallowed hard and blurted it before she could change her mind. “He wasn’t pretending. Well, at that point he was, but before… in the forest…” Ginny closed her eyes so she could concentrate on saying the words. “The curse hit him. He really did die.”

The room went tomb-silent. Even the fire seemed to stop crackling. Ginny opened her eyes again to find a look of shock on Healer Andrews’s face. Unsettled by the rare show of emotion, Ginny looked away so she could continue. “When the… when the curse hit, he… he went to a… an in-between place. A netherworld, of sorts. But he had a choice about whether to come back or… continue on. Obviously, he chose to come back, but…” Her voice cracked and she had to wait for her breathing to level before she could speak again. “That’s twice he’s survived. How many more…” Her throat clogged again and she didn’t try to clear it.

The silence stretched as Ginny’s mind whirled through the thoughts she’d never allowed to surface. Surely, by now, he’d used up all his chances and the next time a curse hit—any curse, not even an Unforgiveable—he wouldn’t have a choice about anything anymore.

“Ginny.” Healer Andrews’s gentle voice called her back to the present, waiting until Ginny’s eyes focused before continuing. “Ginny, people usually only get _one_ chance. If things had happened normally the first time, he would have been gone when you were just a baby.”

Stunned, Ginny sank back into her chair. Never having known Harry... it was inconceivable. She stared wide-eyed at the Healer. “I never thought of it like that.”

“In spite of evidence to the contrary, he’s not invincible, Ginny. He’s human, just like you.”

“No, I...” Ginny shook her head. She didn’t really believe that… did she? Maybe when she was younger, but not now. No, now she was more than certain he was human enough to die. That was the problem. “I know. I know he is. I just…” Just what?

“Do you think the sudden realization of Harry’s mortality could be the root of your panic attacks?”

Ginny blinked. Was that it? She got up to pace again. With the way he’d survived all of the threats on his life since she’d met him—and even before—had she really come to think of him as immune to death… until that last killing curse had proved her wrong?

“I suppose…” she said, still deep in thought. Perhaps that was the answer. Something else was bothering her, though… some tiny misgiving buried deep in her tangled thoughts. But her efforts to unravel it only twisted the knots tighter. Rubbing her fingers over her temples, she finally met Healer Andrews’s watchful gaze. “I guess that could be it. I… I can’t think what else it could be.”

The Healer waited and watched for a couple of minutes more, then glanced at the clock behind the desk. “Our time is up. Just think about it over the next few days. Feel free to call me if you need to over the holiday, otherwise we’ll talk again in a week.”

The holiday. Monday, Harry was jumping into danger again. Would he even be there for Christmas on Tuesday?

Turning her back to the Healer, Ginny slipped into her jacket, drawing several measured breaths to keep her emotions in check. If she was ever going to take control of her demons, this would be the time to start.

***

The rest of Ginny’s day was a blur. She spent the afternoon visiting the children, but, thankfully, they didn’t seem to notice that her mind was almost completely occupied by the morning’s revelations and worry for Harry. Val’s cryptic response to Ginny’s owl about a girls’ night only muddled things more: _Yes to the Goblet tonight. Can’t wait to share my news!_ By the time she stumbled out of the pub’s Floo at seven, Ginny was more than ready for a pint or three and some mindless gossip.

Val and Kelby already had their heads together, giggling madly, when Ginny wound her way through the rowdy Friday-night crowd to their regular table. As she sat, they flashed mad grins at her across the table, Val propping her chin on her hand, tapping her fingers lightly against her cheek, making the light dance wildly around what could only be…

“You’re engaged?” Ginny squealed, grabbing the hand for a better look. What she saw made her gape at Val. “Is that… you’re…?”

“Yes!” Val cried and threw her arms around Ginny’s neck. “Married!”

“Married? What? When?” Ginny spluttered.

Val leaned back, her face a study of smugness and wonder. “Last night. We went out to dinner and, well, maybe had a wee bit much to drink before taking a walk along the Thames. I’m not quite sure how the subject came up, but we were planning our dream home and naming our children, and he just all of a sudden said, ‘Let’s do it. Right now.’ The next thing I knew, we were in Monte Carlo and the wizard at the all-night chapel was declaring us ‘bonded for life.’”

As Val launched into a giddy recount of Scott’s “attributes,” Ginny’s cheeks began to hurt from desperately holding her smile. She really was happy for them, but jealousy had begun a bitter burn in her chest. She wanted this with Harry, the plans, the dreams, the wild joy, the promise of a beautiful future. And she wanted it now. Even—no, especially—the no-plan, no-fuss elopement; Mum would kill them.

But Ginny knew she’d never convince him, not with her demons already ripping them apart.

“How do you do it?” Ginny blurted, cutting into Val’s babbling. “How do you handle knowing he’s in danger, that he might leave for work one morning and never come back?”

From the way Val and Kelby looked at her and then at each other, Ginny knew her panic was showing. She quickly tried to school her face, but their worried expressions had already taken hold.

Val reached across the table and took Ginny’s hand. “I try not to think about it too much. The worry’s there, but I just try to stay busy and pray to every deity out there for his safety.”

“What’s going on, Ginny?” Kelby’s eyes were dark with concern. Val squeezed Ginny’s cold, trembling fingers.

Ginny took a sip from her pint, then stared into it. She’d given too much away. They’d never accept anything but the truth now. But maybe the time had come to trust them. They’d been her friends for years, and in spite of her fears, they’d never betrayed her secrets. Like a blinding _Lumos_ , the realization hit—she needed them. Her family was just too close to the problem… and too close to Harry. Val and Kelby could offer strength and support from a different perspective, if Ginny just had the guts to accept it.

Reclaiming her hand, Ginny drew her wand and cast a Muffliato around them. “You can’t tell a soul.” She gave Val a hard look. “Not even Scott. Especially not Scott.”

Val’s eyes went wide, but after a quick glance at Kelby, she nodded.

“Ginny, we’re your friends. You can trust us,” Kelby said.

Drawing a steadying breath, Ginny nodded. “I know, it’s just… we haven’t told anyone yet. Not on purpose anyway.”

Val grimaced, dug into her pocket, and slapped a Galleon into Kelby’s outstretched hand. “You couldn’t have waited a couple more days?” Val asked.

At Ginny’s dropped-jaw stare, Kelby smirked. “Everybody knew it was just a matter of time before you and Harry got back together. Val bet it would be after Christmas.”

“Oh, Merlin!” Val slapped her hand to her eyes. “I owe Scott a blow job, too.”

“That’s nothing new,” Kelby scoffed.

“On the steps of Gringott’s?”

Kelby put a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop her laughter, but the giddy giggles escaped anyway and Val soon joined her.

Tired of their antics, Ginny gave them a bitter laugh. “Did you also wager on how long Harry and I would last?” The witches fell silent, guilt and dismay mingled on their faces. She took a swig of her pint and let them stew.

“We’re sorry for making fun, Gin,” Kelby said. “What’s happened?”

With a sigh, Ginny told them about her fears—well, most of them anyway. She couldn’t quite bring herself to admit that she might have believed Harry immune to death, but she did spell out her inability to control her terror for his safety and her worry that he might leave again because of it.

“I can’t ask him to change,” she finished. “But I know he won’t stay if I can’t get myself together.”

“And that’s where your friends come in,” Val said grabbing Ginny’s hand again. “I’m in the same position now. We’ll just have to stick together, keep each other company, be there for each other.”

Kelby put her hand on top of theirs. “I’m in, too. We’ll get through this together.”

Ginny gave them a watery smile and gripped their stacked hands with her free one. “Thanks,” she whispered, unable to push her voice past the knot in her throat. With a shaky laugh, she swiped at her eyes, smiling even wider when she noticed that Val and Kelby were both sniffling and dabbing tears, too. “Well,” Ginny said, clearing her throat so she could speak. “Now we just need to find Kelby an Auror and the club will be complete.”

Ignoring Kelby’s protest, Val started running through a list of Scott and Harry’s single co-workers, and Ginny marveled at the warmth in her heart as her fading flicker of hope burst into flame once more. Friends. How could she have taken them for granted so long? With a little smile to herself, she wondered if she could get Luna to paint the ceiling for her.

***

Harry Apparated into his entry hall and listened. The house was quiet. Not too surprising since it was past midnight—Ginny might be asleep. No. More likely she was still with whomever she‘d decided to visit until he got home. At any rate, she wasn’t curled up on the stairs looking like death warmed over.

Relief released the tension in his shoulders, leaving weariness in its wake. Trudging up the stairs, he wondered how her day had gone. He’d never got around to sending that owl. _His_ day had been mad.

Most of the planning was done... at least as much as could be done without knowing the exact time, place, and number of Death Eaters they’d be facing. They did know it would be sometime on Christmas Eve to coincide with a revelry Dolohov had scheduled. But their team had fifty of the most battle-hardened Aurors, men and women who were used to working in uncertain conditions. Tomorrow, they’d train everyone to use the Portkey amulets Hermione had worked out and brainstorm strategies for potential crises. They were as ready as they could be.

Shacklebolt had insisted that everyone take Sunday off to spend with their families, specifically warning Harry against working. Harry thought he’d go mad with that much time on his hands, but agreed because Ginny would probably have his bollocks if he didn’t.

He reached the bedroom and leaned heavily against his chest of drawers. At the sight of the empty bed, lit only with weak moonlight, he finally allowed his mind to ponder the churn of emotions he’d been pushing down all day. He couldn’t understand why Summers’s marriage had been eating at him so, but he hadn’t been able to shut down the… anger—yes, that was it—anger and jealousy and betrayal.

Harry knew it was stupid, but that didn’t seem to matter. Summers was a cad, a smarmy git who for years had played on women’s emotions to satisfy his own libido. What had he ever done to deserve Harry’s dream? With a growl, Harry pounded a fist against the chest of drawers. _He’d_ done everything he’d been expected to do—fulfilled his prophecy, defeated the Dark Lord. Hadn’t he earned the right to a happily ever after?

Yet, in spite of being in his grasp, his heart’s desire was already slipping away.

Without thinking, Harry dropped to his knees, waved a hand to light the lamps, and jerked open the bottom drawer. Digging into the back, he came up with the Mokeskin pouch Hagrid had given him for his seventeenth birthday. It still held many of the things he’d first put into it—the Marauders’ Map, the shard of Sirius’s mirror, and a few other keepsakes—plus his most important belonging. He scrabbled around the bottom of the pouch to pull out his mother’s ring.

The emerald winked at him in the flickering lamplight as he sat back on his heels and held the ring up between his finger and thumb. He tilted it just enough to read the inscription inside and gasped. The original was still there — _LE-JP 1978 Love conquers all —_ but something new had been added: _GW-HP 1998_.

He stared at the letters and date, wondering if the inscription charm had originally allowed for later additions, or if that was something his mother might have done. From all accounts, she’d been talented enough to do such a thing. Would she have foreseen the possibility that she might not be around when Harry needed a ring? But why hadn’t the inscription changed back when Ginny had returned it? Perhaps intent was the determining factor… and she hadn’t really wanted to give it back. Or because Harry hadn’t wanted her to.

Harry shook his head and folded his fingers around the ring, letting the sharp facets cut into his flesh. None of that really mattered, did it? Ginny wasn’t nearly ready to accept it again and even if she did, how long would she keep it? Harry couldn’t take that risk yet. If she took it and returned it again, he’d never survive the heartache.

With a sigh, he dropped the ring back into the pouch and shoved it into the drawer. No point in dwelling on impossible dreams. Heaving himself up, he headed for the bathroom, shedding his clothes at the door.

He was wallowing in the hottest shower he could stand when he felt a kiss between his shoulder blades and two small hands snake around from behind to stroke his stomach. His cock jumped to attention as they drifted lower. Merlin! What kind of Auror was he? He hadn’t even heard her come in.

But then his brain stopped functioning, and he turned to lift her against the tiles so he could devour her mouth, plunging his tongue in over and over in an attempt to slake the hunger he’d been ignoring all day. Ginny met him stroke for stroke, wrapping arms and legs around him, arching against him as if she, too, were desperate to meld their bodies into one.

She pulled her mouth from his with a gasp and he latched on to the sensitive spot where her jaw met her neck. She moaned, “God, Harry, please!” He dropped a shaky hand to position himself and she impaled herself to the hilt. He groaned and grabbed for the wall so they both didn’t hit the floor. Their coupling was hard and fast, ragged breaths and whispered pleas culminating in an explosion of bodies and voices that surely had been heard across London.

Harry rested his forehead on the wall, struggling to catch his breath and keep them upright while she peppered his neck and jaw with kisses. Merlin, she was going to kill him.

“Missed you,” she whispered.

Unable to find his voice, he covered her lips with his, pouring the depth of his love into her the only way he knew how. Without breaking the kiss or pulling out of her, he summoned all of his reserve energy and lifted her from the wall to head to the bedroom. He cast a mindless, wordless, wandless drying spell over them before dropping backwards onto the mattress so he didn’t hurt her, then flipped them over to cover her body with his.

She giggled into his mouth. He leaned back to give her a confused look. “What?”

“That was pretty impressive,” she said with a smile.

He quirked a grin. “You inspire me.”

She laughed, a joyful sound deep from within that he couldn’t help but join. At their slight movement, his half-hard cock nearly slipped from her and he shifted to keep it in place, not yet ready to break the connection.

She smirked. “All ready for another go, then?”

He flushed and kissed her. “Not quite yet, but it won’t be long. Is that a problem?” He hoped his uncertainty didn’t show in his voice.

She just smiled. “That you’re not ready yet, or that it won’t be long?”

“Either. Both.”

“I can wait. And it actually feels pretty long to me. Wide, too. Maybe I won’t have to wait.” She wiggled to seat him more firmly, then giggled again at the unsurprising response it gave. Merlin, he loved her in a playful mood.

“Keep that up and it won’t be long at all.”

“Actually, it seems much longer… and wider now.”

“Not for long—” He groaned with pleasure as she squirmed with determination. “No, wait. Please. I want it to last.” He wasn’t really that close, but he was overwhelmed with a startling need to do this right, to savor the intimacy, to love her properly. Last night’s snuggling had been nice... what they‘d both seemed to need more than sex. But tonight, he wanted—no, _needed_ —the passion. He needed to make her understand just how much he loved her, and words just wouldn’t do it.

She had stopped moving and was watching him with serious eyes, running her fingers through his fringe. “How was your day?”

Surprised at the sudden shift in mood, Harry looked away from the probing gaze. This was dangerous territory. “Fine,” he said, forcing himself to look back, afraid his attempt at casual had failed miserably. “We got a lot done today. How was yours?”

He could’ve bitten off his tongue for asking. This was probably even more treacherous ground.

She shrugged. “Okay. The meeting with Healer Andrews was… interesting.”

And suddenly Harry didn’t want to know. He knew they needed to talk. He knew they’d agreed to. But not now. Not tonight. Talking might lead to places he desperately wanted to avoid. And he _needed_ this night with her. Somehow, he was almost certain it might be their last like this.

He kissed her, putting enough passion into it to draw out a whimper. “It’s late,” he whispered against her mouth. “Let’s wait until tomorrow night to talk. We’ll have more time, then.”

She pressed back into the pillow so she could look into his face. He held her gaze through force of will, and after a couple of minutes she pulled him back down for another kiss. Relief flooded his veins, refueling his flagging erection. He’d make the most of this chance. He’d show her the best way he knew how, that she was his whole world. And maybe, just maybe…


	56. The Best They Can Hope For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny surprises Harry with an announcement and they face hard truths as the time of departure draws near.

Ginny looked at the clock. Harry would be home any minute now. Transfiguring a spoon into a mirror, she checked her hair and make-up. After taking half the day to get ready, she had to be sure that everything was perfect. Just like last night.

Last night.

Her heart fluttered again at the thought. Last night _had_ been perfect. Harry had poured himself into attending to her every need, responding perfectly to her slightest whimper, understanding her desires before she’d realized them herself… and eventually given her complete control, the power to make him writhe and whimper and beg in turn.

Then, in spite of getting nearly no sleep, he’d been up at the crack of dawn, brushing her lips with the gentlest of kisses and promising to be home no later than seven so they could finally talk. She’d lain in bed for nearly an hour, basking in the afterglow and letting her thoughts wander. Unfortunately, they’d taken her down a frightening path.

Maybe last night had been _too_ perfect. What if Harry had been trying to convey some hidden message? What wasn’t he telling her?

The timer charm rang, and she shook away her thoughts to levitate the treacle tart from the oven. She was being stupid. Everything was fine. Letting her imagination run away with her like that would serve no good purpose. She filled the goblets and adjusted the table setting for the tenth time. The last thing she wanted right now was to eat, but Harry might be hungry and cooking had given her something to do.

She felt more than heard the pop of his Apparition. “Down here!” she called, forcing the worry from her tone.

He paused inside the door, his face blank. “Hi.”

Ginny’s fears spiked. He’d closed off again. Maybe he was having second thoughts? _No!_ She couldn’t start the evening this way. They had too many demons to battle already without conjuring new ones.

Squashing her fears, she threw her arms around his neck. “Hi, yourself.” He was tense, but accepted her embrace, dipping his head to meet her upturned lips. She pulled back a little and flashed him a brilliant smile. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He let her go and concentrated too hard on unfastening his outer robe, then walked over to hang it on the hook by the door.

Glad he was facing away from her, Ginny took a deep breath and drew a tight rein on her emotions. Something was very wrong, but confronting him would only send him running. She sat at the table to serve their plates, and he joined her a moment later. After his too bright “looks good,” the agonizing silence was broken only by the clink of forks against china, even though neither of them seemed to be doing much eating. Where had last night’s easy banter gone?

“So, did you get everything done today?” Ginny finally blurted, cringing at her desperate grasp at normality—that was the last topic she’d wanted to broach.

His fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and he looked up through his fringe. “Yeah. As much as we could at any rate.” He lowered his hand and sat back to look at her properly. “You know I can’t tell you anything, right? I mean… everyone involved is magically prevented from talking to anyone outside the team to keep any spies from…” He dropped his gaze to his plate, mouth pressed into a grimace.

“No, I know,” she said, jumping up to refill his goblet, realizing her mistake when her hand shook so badly she slopped juice onto the table. She set the pitcher down with a thunk. “I just…” Just what? Her panicked brain couldn’t supply an answer that didn’t sound completely daft. “Can I get you anything else? More bread? I made treacle tart.” And that didn’t sound daft at all.

Harry shook his head, his face etched with concern. “I’m fine.”

She sat and twisted her hands in her lap; her stomach was crawling up her throat. Neither of them were fine.

“You’re not eating.” Her head jerked up to find him watching her… and not eating, either.

She couldn’t do this anymore. Steeling her nerves, she lifted her chin. “I’m not hungry. Can we talk now?”

Harry closed his eyes, flexed his jaw, and gave a curt nod. Ginny stood. “Not here.” She stepped toward the door and held her hand out to him. He stared at it a moment before standing and letting her lead him up the stairs.

Inside the bedroom, she closed the door and turned to face him. “Healer Andrews suggested we have a safe place to talk, a place where we can say anything we need to and neither of us can judge what the other says.” She ignored his fleeting look of distain and added conviction to her words. “This is our place, Harry. Here, we can be completely open and free with each other in every possible way…” She tried to infuse a teasing tone in her voice, but it came out strained and uncertain. “…and we can get straight to the make-up sex if we need to.”

His eyes widened, and he choked back a seemingly involuntary laugh, but his shoulders relaxed a bit, even though he moved away from her toward the window seat. “So, how was your meeting with Healer Andrews yesterday?”

He still sounded tense, and he wouldn’t look directly at her, but Ginny drew a deep breath and plunged in. “It was good. We may have uncovered the problem—or part of it, at least.”

He finally looked at her, undisguised hope in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Ginny’s chest warmed with a tiny thrill of victory. She explained how her mood swings were a sign of healing since it meant she was learning to recognize and control her panic, and how they’d discovered the destruction of her subconscious belief in his immortality.

“So that’s it, then?” he said when she’d finished. His tone held more than a hint of skepticism. “You thought I couldn’t die until Voldemort proved otherwise? And that caused your—” He stopped and looked at the floor.

“Madness?” Ginny supplied, then rushed over to wrap her arms around him and lay her head against his chest. He held her loosely, as if afraid to touch her. “It’s okay, Harry. It wasn’t just you. A lot of things contributed to my mental illness…” —she’d never admit how small the other things seemed by comparison— “…but I’m learning to control it. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

A shudder ran through him, and his arms tightened. “What do I need to do?”

She leaned back to look up at him. “Just be patient. Don’t panic when I do. And whatever you do, don’t worry about me when you’re working. I’ll go completely round the twist if our problems distract you and something terrible happens.” She hoped her light bravado sounded convincing because she really meant it—keeping her own head would be the problem, but she’d deal with that on her own.

He pulled her close again and stroked a hand up and down her back. “Might not be that easy, you know.”

“I know. We just have to keep working at it.”

They stood like that for a long time, sharing warmth and synching heartbeats. But as content as she was, she couldn’t help worrying about what he was thinking. He’d said all the right things. He hadn’t pushed her away. But something was still off. Shouldn’t he have been more excited? Or angry? Or… something? He was too calm. Any other time, she might give in to her temper, press him for answers, dig out his emotions, but not now. He was leaving on Monday. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought a jolt of terror. No, this was definitely not the time to lose her head. She could wait. And when he got back, they’d get everything out in the open.

He shifted his weight and pressed a kiss into her hair. Shoving her worries away for another day, she tilted her face up to take a proper kiss, then smiled. “So, how do you want to handle telling the family about us tomorrow?”

In an instant, his tension was back. He released her and crossed the room, a hand jammed into his hair. “I don’t know, Gin. I think we should wait…” He dropped his hand and looked toward the fire. “We were going to do it at Christmas, remember?”

Ginny’s rein on her emotions vanished. “You’re leaving the day before!” She tried not to even think about what she left unsaid. “What difference does it make if we do it two days early? Ron and Hermione already know. Val and Kelby know, too, and—”

“Val and Kelby? You told _them_? I thought we were keeping this secret. Now Summers is going—”

“HE KNOWS!” Ginny shouted, throwing her hands into the air. “They guessed! They had a wager going. But it doesn’t matter how they found out. I want my family to know before anyone else works it out, especially the bloody _Prophet_.”

Harry turned his face away, the muscle in his jaw like iron against his flushed skin. “It’s too soon. We’ve too many things to resolve before the rest of the world takes over.”

“The rest of the world? Harry, I want to tell my _family_ , not the whole bloody world.”

“And you think they‘ll just smile and grant their blessing?” He shook his head and crossed his arms. “We need to wait until after I get back when we have more time to work things through. We can’t tell them until you’re…” He pressed his lips together and glared at the floor.

Seething, Ginny waited for him to finish. When the silence began to hurt her ears, she snapped, “Until I’m what? Until I’m not barmy? That’s not going to happen, Harry. I’m always going to go a little crazy when I think you’re in danger. I can’t help it. I love you. But I’m learning to deal with it, and I’m getting better. Waiting to tell my family isn’t going to change any of that. In fact, telling them will probably _help_ because I’ll be able to turn to them for support.”

He had turned his back during her rant, standing stiff and unyielding before the fire. When he didn’t respond after several moments, Ginny’s anger melted into desperation. “Harry, why are we even fighting about this? What are you afraid of? Even if they don’t approve straight away, you know they’ll come around.”

Harry snorted softly. “I thought Ron would’ve have been the easiest, but he went off his nut when you left the other night.” Ginny frowned; she’d be having words with her brother. But Harry was still talking. “George will call me out, for sure, and the rest of them…” He shook his head again. “What kind of support do you think they’ll be while I’m gone if they don’t approve? I won’t come between you and your family, Ginny.”

Gathering up her courage, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him from behind. “Harry, please. I don’t want to fight. It’ll be all right. They love you. I love you. We’ll be fine.”

He relaxed a fraction, and she took it as an opening, slipping around him to push her way into his arms. With a sigh, he hugged her close. “I still think we should wait,” he murmured into her hair.

Ginny melded her body to his. She didn’t agree, but she refused to fight about it anymore. Tonight, she had to convince him that he needn’t question her love. The rest of the world could be sorted tomorrow.

She nuzzled his neck and swiped her tongue over his Adam’s apple. “So can we get to the make-up sex now?” she asked in her most sultry voice, then grinned against his skin. At least one part of him was in favor.

He heaved a weary sigh, but sounded amused. “I suppose.”

***

Ginny cast a look through her lashes around the table. Except for the addition of Charlie sitting next to Mum, it was a typical Weasley Sunday gathering with everyone relaxed and chatting over each other while Mum fussed at them all to eat more. Well, almost everyone was relaxed—her own heart was racing madly, and she’d be willing to wager that Harry wasn’t nearly as cool as he appeared sitting between Dad and Percy; he’d refused to even look in her direction since he’d arrived.

They hadn’t spoken yet today, but that was okay. Slipping out while Harry was still sleeping meant he couldn’t talk her out of doing this. She knew he wasn’t ready, but his excuses were flimsy compared to her need to let her family know. He was leaving tomorrow, and she couldn’t imagine getting through the waiting without their support. Sometimes, a Gryffindor just had to do what she had to do.

When Mum got up to serve pudding, Ginny stood and tapped her spoon on her glass. Harry shot her a look of apprehension and perhaps betrayal—but not surprise—before staring grimly at his plate. Ginny cleared her throat, waiting for all of the conversation to stop and everyone to look her way.

“I have an announcement to make.” Harry’s frown deepened, and for the first time, Ginny worried about what she was getting ready to do. But her concern lasted only a second; he would come around. He’d have to. Shaking off her misgivings, she smiled around the table. “I want to tell you about something before you read it in the _Prophet_.” She paused, noting the concerned look that passed between Hermione and Ron before they glanced at Harry. Taking a deep breath to contain her nervousness, Ginny continued. “I’m seeing someone.”

A buzz of murmurs broke out and nearly everyone cast surreptitious looks at Harry, waiting for his reaction. He had schooled his face into an impassive mask, his unflinching stare trained on the table. Ginny relaxed when she saw the muscle in his jaw twitch—he was preparing himself for a fight; they’d face the fire together.

“Who is it, Ginny, dear?” Bless Mum. She never could bear suspense. “When are you going to bring him round to meet the family?”

Ginny couldn’t resist flicking a peek at Harry. He stood stiffly and walked around the table, seemingly headed for the garden door. Most of the eyes following him held pity, except George, Ron, and Hermione who looked smug, resigned, and amused, in turn.

“You’ve met him, Mum,” Ginny said, drawing attention back to herself. She smiled, then, and stepped away from the table to intercept Harry’s path.

He took the hand she offered, placed his other hand on her hip as he stepped up behind her, and murmured, “We’ll talk about this later,” in her ear before jutting his chin toward the stunned faces around the table.

She didn't really believe that none of them had seen this coming, but Ginny hurried to take advantage of the momentary silence anyway. “And just so you know, even though I—we—want your approval, we don’t have to have it.”

And the chaos began.

Mum hugged them both, gushing about how she always knew they were meant for each other. Fleur babbled in a shrill mix of French and English about the press and “’ow could you do this with the baby due any minute?” Victoire and Teddy bounced around, cheering, even though they couldn’t possibly understand what was happening. Nearly everyone else got to their feet to offer congratulations with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The only ones who hadn’t moved or said a word were George and Dad.

When Ginny realized that Harry was crushing the bones in her hand and leaving finger-shaped bruises on her hip, she looked over her shoulder to see what was wrong; his gaze was fixed on her father’s face. Dad was studying them, his brow furrowed, his eyes filled with worry. She glanced back at Harry. He hadn’t moved and seemed not to even be breathing. He needed Dad’s approval… which made perfect sense. No matter what anyone else said—even Mum—if Dad approved, everything would be fine.

Looking back at her father, Ginny took a deliberate step back against Harry’s chest and pulled on the hand she was holding to wrap their arms around her waist. She held her father’s gaze, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she would have Harry at any cost.

Ginny wasn’t sure if the commotion really faded to nothing or if it just seemed so. No more than a second or two could’ve passed, but it felt like forever before Dad’s face softened. He gave them a gentle smile and a slow nod. Harry’s breath whooshed past her ear, and he slumped against her shoulders. She suspected he’d have hit the floor if she hadn’t been holding on to him, although her own knees felt a bit wobbly, too.

But the relief was short-lived. George kicked his chair against the sideboard and stormed out to the garden, slamming the door so hard behind him the whole house shook. Before Ginny could react, Harry had given her a squeeze and disappeared after George. In a blink, Ron was through the door behind them, Hermione frowning after him.

Ginny moved to follow, but Charlie’s hand on her arm held her in place. He shook his head in silent command before striding out the door with Bill and Percy on his heels. Dad moved across the room, but just closed the door to watch out the window.

Ginny started again to go outside, then growled in frustration as Angelina blocked her path. “I’m sure that’s some sort of male bonding ritual going on out there, and I seriously doubt any of us should try to interfere,” Angelina said, using her greater size and strength to steer Ginny into the corner where Fleur was floundering in an effort to sit upright on her chaise. “I just hope they leave a few pieces of George for me to pound when they’re done.”

Sod George. Harry was the one Ginny was worried about. Her brothers might have some sort of ritual planned, but she suspected it had nothing to do with male bonding—unless it included bonding Harry’s arse to a tree. He might be _able_ to defend himself against five misguided prats determined to uphold her honor—or take them all down at once—but he probably wouldn’t. If they hurt Harry or scared him off, she’d teach them a thing or two about rituals.

As Angelina dragged her across the room, Ginny craned her neck to try and see past Dad into the garden. She caught sight of a dark head surrounded by red ones, but Dad shifted to block the view, almost as if he’d felt her gaze. Surely, he wouldn’t let his own sons hurt Harry… would he?

“Ginny! You are listening, are you not?” Fleur’s accent always became more pronounced when she was on her way to a rant. “We must find the way it is best to manage the public relations. ’Ave you and ’Arry thought what this will mean—”

“Of course we’ve thought about it!” Ginny turned on her sister-in-law, impatiently shaking Hermione’s hand off her shoulder. “We’ve even dealt with it already. Did it never occur to you that Jinks and Skeeter might have actually seen what they reported last week?”

Fleur launched into full-on French and, since Ginny wasn’t paying them any mind, Hermione tried to answer the flurry of questions from Mum, Angelina, Audrey, and Mrs. Tonks.

Ginny tuned them all out, standing on tip-toes to try once more to see out into the garden. This was her fault. She’d known George might—okay, would—react badly, but she’d never dreamed that her brothers would gang up on Harry like this. Or that Dad would stand by and let it happen. Harry shouldn’t have to be out there alone.

Unable to stand it any longer, Ginny grabbed her wand from her pocket, twisted out of her mother’s smothering embrace, and spun herself out of the kitchen.

***

The moment George slammed out the door, Harry knew he had to follow. This thing between them would only get worse if he didn’t address it now.

By the time he caught up, George was exploding gnome holes with a ferocity Harry hadn’t seen since the final battle. He had only a split second to erect a shield to avoid the Blasting Curse George sent his direction; Harry didn’t believe for a minute that it was accidental.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

At Ron’s shout, Harry made a desperate grab for his wand.

“Give that back, you wanker!” George screeched.

Ron calmly folded his arms, two wands in his left hand, his own in his right. “I will. As soon as you both cool off.”

One eyebrow lifted, Harry gave Ron his coolest glare. Ron ignored him in favor of watching George viciously kick at the displaced gnomes.

Without warning, George rounded on Harry with a pointed finger. “You just couldn’t stay away from her, could you?”

Keeping his eyes on George, Harry tensed into a defensive stance, fully aware that Bill, Charlie, and Percy had walked up behind him, cutting off his main path of retreat. Great. He was going to have to face them all… without a wand. But George was the biggest threat right now. Harry kept his voice calm, but firm. “No, I couldn’t stay away. I tried.”

George snorted. “Tried, my arse. I saw how hard you tried.” He paused as if a startling thought had occurred to him, then launched himself, fists flying. “You’re the one! You’re the one she’s been sleeping with, you bastard!”

Harry had never been so grateful for hand-to-hand combat training. He managed to avoid George’s blows and subdue him without landing any punches of his own. None of the other brothers had moved to either interfere or help, but their crossed arms and scowling faces said exactly what they thought of this news. Ron looked like he was struggling to hold his neutral mask.

Scrambling quickly to release the thrashing, swearing George without getting hit or kicked, Harry backed away from the group so he could keep them all in his sight. He held up his hands and lifted his chin. “I did try to stay away. But even when I couldn’t, I didn’t make the first move. You know what Ginny’s like when she sets her mind on something.” Even to his own ears, it sounded like a pathetic excuse, no matter that it was the truth.

“That’s right. Blame Ginny,” George snarled. “I reckon you blame her for all that happened before, too.”

“No, I—”

“Do you even know what it was like for her? Do you honestly believe it’s not going to happen again? If you really cared about her, you’d just stay the hell away!”

Harry swept his gaze across the row of stern faces waiting to hear what he had to say. Squaring his shoulders, he forced his voice steady. “I do remember what it was like for her. I have nightmares about seeing her on the stairs looking like a ghost. But she told me she was better. I had no idea until just the other night that she might be… stretching the truth.” George opened his mouth, but Harry quickly continued. “She still insists that she’s going to be okay and…” —what the hell; Hermione was right, and he’d eventually give in anyway— “…and I’m going to go with her to couple’s counseling. We’re going to get through this together.” Harry gave himself a mental slap; some hero he was, taking the easy way out.

George snorted. “And what happens when some Dark wizard curses your brains out? How will she cope, then?”

“I’m not planning to let that happen.”

“Yeah, well, Fred…” —George’s voice cracked only a bit— “Fred didn’t plan to let a wall fall on him, either, now did he?”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What? You want a one-hundred-percent guarantee that I’m not going to die tomorrow? I can’t give you that. None of us can. Every one of us here faces danger every day.” Moving full-steam into his rant, Harry flung a hand toward George. “You could get blown up in your product development lab.” He pointed at Ron… “Ron’s going up against Dark wizards just like I am.” …then gestured at Bill and Charlie in turn. “Bill could come across a curse he can’t break. Charlie could get fried by a dragon.” Harry turned toward Percy. “Percy could die from… from…”

Percy raised his eyebrow and tapped his foot. “Well?”

Harry flushed. “Erm…”

Ron snickered. “Writer’s cramp?”

Bill’s lips twitched. “Ink poisoning?”

Charlie snorted. “Straining for perfection?”

Harry almost lost it at the mental image that conjured.

Percy huffed and rolled his eyes. “Why not just have me trip and drown in the Ministry fountain?”

Harry tried to cover his laugh with a cough. Ron, Bill, and Charlie seemed to be having the same problem.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! You people have no imagination whatsoever!” George’s scornful sneer instantly killed their mirth. They watched warily as he sauntered over to throw an arm around Percy’s shoulders. “ _Ob_ -viously… dear, brave, devoted Percy will be mauled by an escaped prisoner-turned-werewolf during a midnight trial in Courtroom Ten. He’ll go down in a gory bloodbath, bravely sacrificing himself to protect the upstanding men and women of the Wizengamot. A statue will be erected in his honor, memorializing for time and eternity his passionate crusade for thicker cauldron bottoms, thereby making the wizarding world a safer place for one and all.”

“Exactly!” Percy said with a sharp nod. George mirrored the gesture and the two of them stuck their surprisingly similar noses in the air, surveying the garden as if they’d just solved the meaning of life.

Harry clamped his lips down on his laughter, but it exploded through his nose leaving a sharp after-burn and triggering similar bursts from the other brothers. Soon, the four of them were holding their sides and falling against each other in glee. Through his tears, Harry saw Percy’s lips pull into a reluctant grin and George’s face morph into a satisfied smirk as he watched them.

A sharp crack stopped them all mid-chuckle. Almost before she’d fully appeared, Ginny whirled and pointed her wand at George. He pulled Percy in front of him. A flock of bats exploded into being, and George hit the ground to avoid becoming a secondary target.

The hilarity returned ten-fold. Harry wondered if it were possible to literally die from laughing.

As Percy swatted desperately at the bats, Ron gasped, “Or… an overdose… of bogies… could… kill him!”

The howls of merriment were fueled higher by Ginny’s confused “Harry, what’s going on?”

Harry wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck until he could contain himself. Finally collecting a lungful of air, he kissed her soundly. “You are amazing!”

By this time, everyone—even Fleur—had emerged from the kitchen and Mr. Weasley had canceled Ginny’s hex. Ginny turned to face her family, holding one of Harry’s arms across her shoulders and one around her waist. Harry shook off the rest of his laughter and stood tall behind her.

“Don’t think this means we won’t be watching, Potter.” George’s tone was still hostile, but his previous rage had gone.

Ginny tried to raise her wand, but Harry held her arm down. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” he said to George, but included the whole family in his gaze. “I love Ginny and I’ll do my best to take care of her as long as she’ll have me.”

He could feel her tense, no doubt ready to protest anyone taking care of her, but Harry tightened his embrace, and she seemed to get the message that now was not the time.

Mr. Weasley stepped forward and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I told you before, Harry. You’re part of this family whether you marry into it or not.” He sent a meaningful glance at George, then swept it around to include everyone before looking back at Harry and Ginny. “But we’ll be thrilled if things work out for you and Ginny. We only want you both to be happy.”

Ginny gave Harry’s arms a squeeze before stepping out of them to hug her father. “We are happy, Dad. Thank you.”

Mrs. Weasley rushed forward to smother Harry in a warm embrace. Each of the brothers came forward to hug Ginny and shake Harry’s hand—George’s menacing mock-smile and bone-crushing grip said clearly that winning him over might take years. The sisters-in-law hugged them both. But Harry was under no delusion that the confrontation was over. He could sense the concern behind each smile and knew he’d have to be on his best behavior for a long time to fully dispel their worry. He and Ginny still had their work cut out for them, but at least they no longer had to hide.

***

“Are you really sure about this?”

Ginny jumped a little. Caught up in watching Harry teach Teddy a few simple tricks on his training broom in the field behind the garden, she hadn’t heard Hermione approach. But she refused to answer that question again and, instead, nodded toward Harry. “He’s here, but he’s not. It’s like his mind is a million miles away.”

Hermione settled onto the bench and sighed. “I’m sure he’s thinking about tomorrow. A lot of lives are at stake, and you know he’s going to feel responsible for every single one.”

Keeping her eyes on Harry, Ginny hummed her agreement. That might be part of it, but she had a feeling it was something more… personal. As if he were distancing himself from her again—probably his way of “taking care of her.” But she couldn’t say that to Hermione, because then she’d have to explain why she thought that, and her nerves already felt like a bowstring stretched to the point of snapping. She didn’t want to talk about tomorrow; she didn’t even want to _think_ about tomorrow. If she could convince herself that Harry would be spending just a normal day at the office, maybe she could keep her demons at bay until he got home.

Hermione had other ideas. “Ginny, are you going to be okay tomorrow? You should really—”

“No, Hermione, I’m not okay,” Ginny said through gritted teeth. Grabbing the edge of the bench until her fingernails felt like they were peeling away, she closed her eyes and counted her breaths until she could speak without screaming. Her voice came out as a rasping whisper. “I’m not okay and I won’t _be_ okay until Harry walks back through the door tomorrow in one piece. But I’ll get through it. I’m going to spend the morning at the children’s home and then come here to help Mum with the Christmas cakes. I’ll probably make a bloody mess of everything, but I’ll try to stay busy so I don’t go completely barmy.” She turned to give Hermione a glare. “But you’re not to say a word to Harry about it, do you understand? He doesn’t need to worry about me. It may not look much like it for a while, but I _will_ be fine.”

Hermione’s face went blank. “Oh. Well. That’s good then. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control. I’m glad to hear it.” Her brisk voice did little to cover the hurt in her tone.

Ginny cringed. She hadn’t meant to be harsh. She’d known for years that Hermione was a mother bird who nurtured her chosen chicks by gathering knowledge and ramming it down their throats. As annoying as that could be sometimes, Ginny was grateful to be among the flock. After all, where would she be now if, when she’d shattered at rock bottom, Hermione hadn’t been there to pick up the pieces and put her back together again?

As Hermione made to stand, Ginny put a hand on her arm. “Hermione, wait. I’m sorry. I just… I’m trying so hard not to think about it. I’m just so scared for him.”

Hermione relaxed and placed her hand over Ginny’s. “I know. I can’t imagine how hard it must be. I’d go completely round the twist if I had to sit home and wait for Ron. I think you’re holding up very well, considering.”

Ginny didn’t agree, but she had to change the topic to hide how close to the edge she was. And now that she’d been forced into thinking about tomorrow, she realized this was her best chance to ask questions. “So, you’ll be there with them?”

“No, not on site. I’ll be monitoring things from the base camp. We have sev—” Hermione stopped and frowned. “Well. Good to know the secrecy charm works. I guess I can’t tell you any more about it.”

Ginny groaned, but tried again. “But you’ll know what’s going on?”

“Yeees.” Hermione rolled the word about on her tongue with a thoughtful expression. “Okay, it seems I can answer some questions. Just don’t get too specific.”

Giddy at the thought of finally getting some answers—sort of—Ginny turned sideways on the bench and gripped Hermione’s arm with both hands. “You’ll be able to keep him—them, Ron and Harry… and Scott—safe? You won’t let them do anything stupid, will you?”

Hermione raised one eyebrow. “This is Ron and Harry and Scott we’re talking about. What makes you think I’ll have the least bit of control over any of them?”

“Well, you’ll warn them of danger…” —at Hermione’s eye roll, Ginny huffed— “…okay, you’ll warn them of _excessive_ danger? You’ll be able to activate protections and shields, right?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. “I can’t say.” At Ginny’s frown, she added, “But I _can_ tell you I’ll do everything in my power to see that they get home safely.”

Ginny swallowed her disappointment and nodded. “That’s all I can ask. But do you know how long it might take? You will let me know the minute everything is over, won’t you?”

“Ginny,” Hermione said with a sigh. “It could take minutes or days.”

 _Days?_ Ginny’s stomach knotted. How could she survive for days without knowing anything? Ginny forced her attention back to Hermione.

“I just don’t know. These things are absolute chaos. You saw what it was like at the Quidditch match. And once it’s over, _if_ everything goes to plan, we’ll have prisoners and victims to tend to and Ministers from…” —Hermione paused, apparently trying to see what she could say— “…several countries to notify. I’ll keep you posted as much as I can, but I can’t promise anything.”

 _If_ everything goes to plan? Ginny slumped back against the bench, misery descending like a heavy shroud. “How can I stay sane if I don’t know what’s going on?”

Hermione gave her a sad smile. “Sometimes, knowing is worse. Just do what you’ve planned and stay busy. Count no news as good news. I’ll get in touch the minute I can.”

Forcing out a frustrated breath, Ginny nodded. “I know. I’ll—”

“Tor-ee! Get away!”

Ginny jerked her head around to find Teddy on his broom, suspended two feet off the ground just across the garden wall, kicking at Victoire’s head.

“Teddy!” Harry rushed over to grab his godson and set him firmly on the ground. “That’s not nice. You should let Victoire have a turn.”

“No! It’s my broom. ’Sides, girls can’t fly.”

Ginny covered her mouth to keep from giggling out loud as Harry cast a glance her way. He leaned over and mock-whispered in Teddy’s ear, “Don’t let Ginny hear you say that.”

Teddy put his hands on his hips and stared at Harry as if he’d lost his mind. “Ginny’s not a girl. She’s a Harpie!”

Ginny and Hermione burst out laughing. Fighting a grin, Harry patted Teddy’s shoulder. “Believe me, mate, she’s most definitely a girl.” The look he turned on Ginny lifted the rock from her chest and made her very glad that she was, indeed, a _girl_. Harry smiled back down at Teddy. “You’ll understand one day.”

Teddy crossed his arms and muttered mulishly, “Girls are dumb. They should know they can’t fly.”

Feeling light-hearted with relief at having Harry’s full attention for a moment, Ginny scrambled over the low wall. “Come on, Victoire. I think Teddy has just issued a challenge. Let’s show them how girls ride a broom. You up for it, Potter?”

“Always,” Harry said, his eyes glinting with something more interesting than competition as he Summoned two full-sized brooms from the shed.

“To the far side of the orchard and back,” Ginny said, straddling her broom and seating Victoire securely in front of her. Harry had barely lifted Teddy into place when she kicked off, shouting over her shoulder, “Winner names the prize!” And she knew just what she’d claim when they were done.

***

When Harry finally Apparated them back to their bedroom, Ginny barely gave him time to draw a breath before she was on him—partly to claim her prize, but mostly because she was about to go mad from not being able to touch him like she’d wanted for most of the day. Harry had been reluctant to be too demonstrative with everyone watching, and had insisted they be the last to leave. Ginny hadn’t wanted to push him too hard after springing the announcement on him like that.

“Are you very angry with me?” she murmured between kisses and fumbling with his zip.

With a groan, he vanished their clothing and flopped onto the bed, pulling her on top. She eagerly straddled him to continue her frantic exploration.

“No.” He flipped them over to suck greedily on a nipple. “Not angry…” he muttered, moving to the other breast. “Wish you’d waited, though.”

Ginny jammed her hands into his hair and arched into him. “I know. ’M sorry. Needed… needed to… tell them…”

He stopped and raised his head to look at her. “I know, I just…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”

She searched his eyes, trying to find the reason for his reluctance, especially after the worst hadn’t happened. “But it worked out. I told you they love you.”

His gaze shuttered. “We’ll see.” He fastened his mouth to hers as if he were trying to pour his soul into it. Within seconds, her questions were lost in a blissful haze.

Later, Ginny lay quietly watching the flickering glow from the embers in the fireplace, Harry’s arm a comforting weight over her stomach, his breathing a soothing rhythm at her back. She wondered if he were really asleep—he was so much better at pretending now than he’d been before—but she forced her body to remain still, just in case. Even so, she found it hard to relax.

Hermione had said it might be days before the mission was done. _Days!_ Anything could happen in that amount of time, and she’d be helpless to find out about it.

In the dim light and near silence, Ginny’s demons started pulling at their shackles. Even with Harry wrapped safely around her, she couldn’t stop the images whirling in her head and the hopeless terror building in her heart... the certainty that if he walked out of the door tomorrow, he’d be lost to her forever. She _knew_ thoughts like that were ridiculous—nothing was certain about _any_ tomorrow—but she was fighting a losing battle against the demons battering her brain: _what if… what if… what if…_

Oh, dear Merlin. She’d promised him she could handle this, that she’d be all right. How could she ever keep a promise like that?

Her fears and emotions coiled tighter and tighter, a quivering spring that threatened to snap any second. She had to move. She had to get away from Harry now, before she broke down completely.

Slipping away from his warmth was nearly her undoing, but she snagged her wand from her discarded jeans as she went, only just managing not to run across the room. Her Silencing Charm settled on the closed bathroom door just in time to block in her choked sob.

***

Harry stared blindly into the shadows undulating around the room. With his thoughts stomping around his brain like a herd of Hippogriffs, he’d given up trying to sleep hours ago. He suspected Ginny was still awake, too—her body spooned against his was too tense and her breathing too even to be natural—but he was determined not to disrupt her rest. He was worried about how she’d make it through tomorrow, and knew the only thing he could really do to help her was get it over with as quickly as possible.

He’d been relieved that she’d chosen a less coherent form of communication when they’d got home. Now that he was paying attention, he could tell that her brave façade was just that, a mask, brittle as new-formed ice. He was terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing with no time to fix it before he left.

For the first time in three years, he felt no eagerness to leave for a mission. Dreaded it, in fact. He needed more time to sort things here, to be sure she was strong enough to handle his absence. But he also needed to end this thing with Dolohov, or he—they—would never be able to move forward.

Harry was startled from his thoughts when Ginny slipped out of his arms and went into the bathroom, grabbing her wand and closing the door behind her. He pushed himself up, leaning on one arm to stare after her. Something was wrong. They’d got past closing the door back when she was in school. He watched the unwavering line of light along the floor, his worry growing with each passing minute. Just as he moved to the edge of the bed to go and knock, she came out swathed in his bathrobe, her arms wrapped so tightly around her middle he thought they might meet behind her back.

Instead of coming back to bed, she veered off toward the window and pushed aside the curtain to stare down at the street below. The blue-white glow from the streetlamps cast her furrowed brow in sharp relief, and although it was hard to tell, her face looked blotched and puffy. She’d been crying. Harry’s heart thudded so loudly she must’ve been able to hear it. Before he could say anything, he saw her lips move, the words barely audible...

“Don’t go.”

His heart stuttered. He should’ve anticipated this, should’ve had a response ready, but there was only one and he couldn’t bring himself to voice it. “Gin…”

She turned to face him, chin lifted, eyes blazing. “Don’t go. Stay with me. I know I’m being selfish, but I only just got you back, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you again. Haven’t we earned the right to a bit of selfishness, a bit of happiness? Haven’t _you_ , more than anyone, earned that right?”

Ignoring his lack of clothing, he crossed to the window in three strides and reached for her, but she twisted away. “No, don’t. Please.” At the strangled plea, Harry dropped his hand—she was holding herself together by sheer willpower.

“Gin, I have to go,” he said, his tone low, begging for understanding. “You know I do.”

She whirled on him. “No, Harry. No, I don’t know! Why can’t somebody else do it this time? Why does it always, always have to be _you_?”

Her anger was almost a relief from the pain she’d been wearing, and he let it spark a little of his own. “It doesn’t _always_ have to be me. But this time it does. I have to finish this.”

“And what then? Won’t it just be one more case to finish? And one more? And one more? You’ve thrown yourself into danger for years and a little bit of me dies every time you do. How can you expect me to keep watching you make a target of yourself?”

A film of ice formed around Harry’s heart, but he refused to acknowledge the implication of her words, taking refuge in a diversion instead. “And you don’t think I’m not terrified every time you fly over the pitch with Bludgers and people coming at you from all sides? You’re just as much a target as I am.”

“Those people aren’t _trying_ to kill me, Harry!”

“You’d be just as dead if they did!”

“BUT I’M NOT GOING TO STOP AND LET THEM TAKE AIM AT ME.” She gave up all control, flinging her arms and shouting at him. “You walked right past me, Harry. You walked right past without even saying goodbye, so you could just stand there and _let_ him cast Avada Kedavra at you! How do I know you won’t do that again? How do I know that, if the greater good demanded it, you wouldn’t just lay down and die again? And this time you wouldn’t come back!”

She stopped, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide, tears coursing down her cheeks. The stunned look on her face said clearly that she was as surprised by the outburst as he was. But that didn’t make it any less devastating.

“No,” he croaked, when he could find his voice. He took a tentative step toward her, and when she didn’t back away, closed the distance to wrap her in his arms. She buried her face in his neck. “No, Ginny. No,” he crooned. “That was… I had to. It was the only way to get rid of him. But I wouldn’t… not like that. Not again. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she whispered shakily against him

He squeezed her tightly. “You’re right. I can’t promise that nothing will happen. But I can promise that I won’t go down without a fight. Never again. I swear to you, on my honor as a wizard. I will never walk passively to my death again… not for anyone but you.”

Leaning back, she turned sad eyes upward. “Never is a strong word, Harry.” When he started to protest, she pressed her fingers onto his lips. “It’s okay. I know. I know.”

He shook his head, aching to reassure her, to tell her anything… _anything_ she needed to hear that would make it all right. But that would only make matters worse in the end.

She straightened in his arms, as if drawing on some inner strength, and gave him a ghost of a smile that didn’t hide the despair in her eyes. “It’s who you are, Harry. I’ve always known that. It’s what made me fall in love with you, and I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you to promise anything that will keep you from doing what you have to do.” She stretched onto her toes to kiss him gently. “I’ll be here when you get back. And I’ll be okay.”

Clutching her to him, he fought the burn behind his eyelids and filled his lungs with the scent that was his sustenance. “Promise me…” His voice was rough and thick with emotion. “Promise me that you’ll be okay, that you’ll keep going if…”

He couldn’t tell if the sound she made against his chest was a laugh or a sob. Her body shuddered against him so violently that he tightened his arms until he was sure he was squeezing her breath away. After a moment, she pulled back and stared defiantly at him through her tears. “You shouldn’t ask me, either, to make promises I might not be able to keep… but I’ll think about it. And when you get back, I’ll give you my answer.”

Nodding, he drew her back in. It was the best either of them could hope for.


	57. The Battle Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry battles Dolohov. Ginny battles her demons.

Harry stood on the low platform in the center of the base camp, shivering from the icy air that defied his warming charm. The first-strike team was queuing up to receive their amulets from Hermione, and even though the sun wouldn’t be up for a couple of hours, the fifty witches and wizards looked alert and ready for action. They were highly-skilled veterans, the cream of more than 200 volunteers, a force to be reckoned with—but they still eyed each other uncertainly, as if trying to decide who might not be here by the end of the day. Even with inside information and the element of surprise in their favor, this mission was dangerous and losses were inevitable. Harry was determined they’d be as few as possible.

As he watched the amulet distribution, he sent silent words of encouragement to each recipient by name. He’d been amused by Hermione’s astonished approval that he’d taken the time at their first strategy session to speak with each team member, and afterward, had used a Pensieve to cement the details in his mind. She’d probably been most surprised that he’d done it without any prompting, but why wouldn’t he? These people were following him into battle. Why wouldn’t he want to know who they were and what loved ones were waiting for their safe return? He just hoped their farewells this morning hadn’t been as agonizing as his own.

Ginny had insisted on getting up to see him off. One part of him had been grateful; the other part wished he’d slipped out while she slept so he wouldn’t have had to face her, eyes blazing with determination that had done little to mask her trembling fear. “Come back to me,” she’d said, kissing him passionately and looking much like the Ginny who’d let him go after Dumbledore’s funeral. Stepping away from her and Disapparating while she struggled to hold her brave stance had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Footsteps on the dais brought him back to the present, and he shoved his emotions into the box in the back of his mind. Now was not the time to dwell on such things; he needed a clear head.

As Hermione and an unusually somber Summers joined him, Harry straightened his spine and lifted his chin. “Ready, then?” At their nod, he squashed the nerves fluttering in his stomach and touched his wand to his throat.

“Good morning.” His amplified voice silenced the lingering murmurs and drew every eye his direction. Sucking in a deep breath, he forced his voice to steady. “Thank you for volunteering to join this mission. I truly appreciate the sacrifice you’ve made in giving up time with your loved ones during this holiday season.

“As you know, you were chosen for your exceptional skill, magical compatibility, and complementary talents. I have no doubt that you are the best Wizarding strike team ever gathered and that our targets today don’t stand a chance against you.”

Pausing briefly at the smattering of applause and muted affirmation, Harry scanned the crowd, finally spotting Ron, whose thumbs-up bolstered his confidence. The mantle of leadership still felt awkward and pretentious, especially in front of this group, some of whom had decades of experience on him; their willingness to pay him any mind at all was humbling. He could never bear this responsibility without his closest friends at his back.

“Probably the hardest thing we’ll do today is wait.” Before the subdued wave of restless grumbles could grow, he continued, “As you know, Dolohov is hosting a Yule Revel for his troops, which means this has the potential to be the largest group of his operatives we’ll have the chance to apprehend at one time. We’re not certain exactly when the signal will come—most likely late in the day—but when it does, we must be ready within seconds.”

Nearly every man and woman stood a bit straighter, indicating their readiness. Yes, they’d chosen this group well.

“We expect they will be partaking in a great deal of alcohol and… erm, carnal activities.” He grimly waited for the chuckles and a couple of lewd comments to finish. “But don’t think for a minute that their… distraction will make them easier to bring down. Most of those activities will involve torturing and exploiting their captives, especially the young women and boys. And they won’t hesitate to use those captives as shields and weapons.”

The sudden silence was heavy; those who’d made vulgar remarks stared at their feet. Harry weighted his next words as a challenge.

“Your job is to save as many captives as possible, while bringing Dolohov and his Death Eaters to justice.” The tension in the crowd became palpable.

“Justice,” he repeated with more emphasis, letting the word settle until he had every eye trained on him. “It’s what makes us different from them. I won’t deny that I think every one of them—Dolohov, first and foremost—deserve a gruesome death for their crimes. But I am not judge and executioner… nor are you.”

The mix of bobbing heads and frustrated scowls reflected Harry’s own feelings, but he pressed on.

“You are authorized to use whatever spells you need, up to and including the killing curse, to defend yourselves and the victims you’ll encounter…” In some of the countries represented by this group, Avada Kedavra wasn’t even an Unforgiveable, and Harry knew none of them would hesitate to use it. “But remember who you are… and who you are not. Use only as much force as necessary to apprehend your targets. Aside from the fact that our job is to bring them in for a fair trial before a proper Wizarding court, please remember that a _live_ Death Eater is far more likely than a dead one to provide information we could use to shut down the whole operation once and for all.”

The round of quiet laughter broke the tension in the air, and Harry rolled his shoulders to shake away some of his own. This was going much better than he’d expected. Now, if only the raid itself would be so successful.

When the moment of levity started to wane, Harry cleared his throat and began again. “Be prepared to defend against some truly heinous curses. Although they will occasionally use an AK, Dolohov and his minions favor spells that take their victims through agonizing suffering before bringing death. Dolohov’s personal favorite is _Viscus Debello_ , a curse identified by a purple flame that causes massive organ damage and internal bleeding designed to kill the victim after days, if not weeks, of excruciating pain. The counter-curse is a complicated ritual that takes the better part of a day and is best left to qualified Healers.” He pointed to the green-clad group to the left of the stage. “If one of your teammates is hit by this curse or is otherwise incapacitated, cast a Stasis Charm and send them back here as quickly as possible.”

Harry paced across the front of the stage so he could make eye contact with as many people as possible, and held out the amulet hanging from his neck. “The amulets you wear are both your secret weapon and your lifeline. While these are very similar to the ones Dolohov used in his strike against the charity Quidditch match in November, they are much improved, thanks to our brilliant researcher, Mrs. Hermione Weasley.” Harry nodded toward her.

She flushed and ducked her head to acknowledge the applause, led loudly by Ron.

“Like Dolohov’s versions,” Harry continued. “The amulets that Summers and I wear are keyed to all of yours through your magical signatures, allowing us to control the Portkey effect in both directions. And, of course, you can control your own and your comrades’ Portkeys with a touch of your wand and the password ‘phoenix.’ But, while Dolohov’s amulets deactivated when confiscated, these will transport anyone who is not part of our team to a holding cell warded with magic-suppression spells and with guards waiting to sort the villains from the innocents.

“Additionally, the magic linking your amulets to each other will create a grid here,” —he pointed toward the table visible through the nearest tent opening— “showing the locations of everyone on the battlefield, including our targets and their victims. Once we bring you into the village, hold your position until you receive the signal that the map is active. After that, Hermione will monitor it and stay in constant contact with those of us wearing Enchanted Ears to help guide the attack.

“And finally,” he said. “Hermione will keep an eye not only on your position, but on your physical condition. The amulets will transmit your vital signs, and if you’re unconscious for more than five minutes, she’ll activate your Portkey to bring you back to the healing station.”

Hermione frowned. They’d argued that point viciously, but Harry had pulled rank. Getting knocked out by a Stunner in battle was common, but didn’t necessarily take someone completely out of the action, especially if a comrade were nearby to cast _Enervate_. He couldn’t have Hermione snatching his troops away when she couldn’t see exactly what was going on.

Harry swept his gaze over the attentive faces again. He’d expected some to be restless by now—they’d gone over this dozens of times already—but everyone appeared to be with him.

“Once the initial strike is well underway, additional troops will move in to secure the perimeter and round up strays as well as assist with clean-up once our mission is accomplished. Any questions?” He nodded toward the hand raised by a burly wizard near the rear.

“If we come across Dolohov, do we confront him ourselves or should we save that privilege for you?”

“Take him down immediately, by whatever means necessary.” Harry’s swift and emphatic response drew a chorus of cheers. As much as he’d love to face Dolohov himself, Harry had escaped sure capture or death too many times because arrogant Dark wizards had refused their minions the privilege of facing him. He’d be damned if he’d make that same mistake.

“Anything else?” When no other hands went up, he finished, “All right, then. The dining tent is open, and the dueling area is available if you need to work off some energy. Take it in turns to get some sleep, if you can. Thank you again for your willingness to serve.”

As the group broke up, Harry released a heavy breath and relaxed against Hermione when she wound her arm through his and dropped her head on his shoulder.

“And now we wait,” she said, reminding him sharply of sitting at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, waiting for the moon to rise over the Whomping Willow.

“And now we wait.”

***

The second Harry was gone, Ginny let her false bravado drop and crawled onto his side of the bed to bury her face in his pillow. She didn’t cry. She’d thought she might, but she was well past that. Crying would require feeling, and she had already dipped her emotions into the black well of numbness that had cushioned her so well three years ago.

She knew she shouldn’t dangle on the edge of the abyss like this—it could suck her in too quickly—but for a little while, at least until the rest of the world was awake, she needed this refuge from her fears, the freedom from thoughts that would drive her mad if she gave them free rein.

Blindly watching the day creep in through the curtains, she was conscious only of Harry’s scent on the pillow beneath her cheek. She might have remained like that for hours, or maybe days, except…

_Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat._

The insistent tap against the window finally broke through her haze. For a solitary second, her head cleared and hope leapt in her chest. Maybe—

 _No!_ She wasn’t going to do that to herself. He couldn’t be finished yet. And even if he was, Hermione had said wrapping things up afterward would take time. At any rate, Ginny had promised herself she’d wait until she heard something definite so she wouldn’t be tossed about all day by emotional highs and lows. She snorted. Some promise. She’d broken it hours ago. But maybe staying in the valleys would be much easier than trying to navigate them after soaring to the peaks.

_Tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat…_

“All right, all right,” she grumbled. If the sun weren’t shining, she might think icy rain was hitting the window instead of one bloody owl.

Sitting up took a massive effort; her head and limbs felt like they’d gained two stone each since Harry left. She slumped at the edge of the bed, head in her hands, fighting to clear the fog from her brain. Yes, definitely a valley.

_Tatatatatatatatatatatatatatatat…_

“I’m coming!” Merlin! How could one stupid bird make so much noise? She stumbled across the room and drew up short. “Oh!”

Not one owl. Three very familiar ones. And when she opened the window, a fourth that she didn’t recognize flew in. With a hope-fueled burst of energy, she fumbled with the bowl of owl treats on the table by the window and gathered the missives, then scrambled back to the bed to rip open the last one—the one with Hermione’s handwriting.

 

> _Everything’s fine. Stop wallowing and stay busy!_ _I’ll be in touch again as soon as I can._
> 
> _—Hermione_   
> 

 

Ginny couldn’t hold back her slightly hysterical giggle. _Stop wallowing_ , indeed! Hermione knew her entirely too well.

With a sigh, she opened the other letters: Mum had sent a list of Christmas cake ingredients to get from the shop (Ginny had seen most of the items in the cupboards yesterday); Bill wanted to know if Ginny could come and help transport Fleur, Victoire, and all of their necessities and presents to the Burrow (as if he couldn’t manage on his own like he did every week); and George wanted help with some last minute shopping (even though he’d bragged yesterday about finishing weeks ago). Ginny knew what they were trying to do, and it made her heart swell with love. Telling them about Harry had been the right choice.

She glanced once more at Hermione’s note and forced out an irritated breath. “Come on, Ginny,” she said out loud, because she needed to hear it. “It was your idea in the first place to stay busy. So get your arse up and get moving.”

But no matter what her mind ordered, her body had different ideas and over an hour passed before she was presentable to the world. She eyed the notes scattered on the bed and worried for a moment about where to go first. Last night’s epiphany about her fear that Harry would willingly give up his life again was something Healer Andrews would probably want to know about, but Ginny couldn’t bring herself to disturb the woman’s holiday. Boxing Day would be soon enough. And by then, Harry would be back and maybe they could go together.

Before that thought could open the door to her demons, Ginny swatted it away and made her decision: deliver presents and goodies to the children’s home as originally planned; pick up cake ingredients while tagging along with George; then swing by Shell Cottage on the way to the Burrow. That should keep her occupied for most of the day and, hopefully, Harry would be home before she knew it.

***

The sun was on its downward slide into the distant tree line by the time Malfoy’s signal came. With a shout to Summers, Harry drew his wand, swirled on his Invisibility Cloak, and let their linked Galleons guide him into the village.

He found himself in the deep shadows of a narrow dead-end alley lined with heaps of rubbish and permeated by a gut-churning stench of piss and rotting flesh that he hoped was vermin, not human. Pinching his burning nose and swallowing back bile because he could still taste the air he was breathing, Harry otherwise remained still while he checked out his surroundings… including a vaguely familiar man lounging near the alley opening.

The man stood just far enough into the shadows that he wouldn’t easily be seen from the street, but close enough to the entry to watch the activities in the square beyond. Harry could make out a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee on the shaded profile, framed by dark curls falling to his shoulders. With his arms crossed, his back and one foot propped against the wall, the man appeared bored with the world… unless someone was watching closely enough to catch the occasional flick of his eyes toward the back of the alley and the fingers flexing around the wand hidden from view against his side.

“Come _on_ ,” the man whispered to himself.

With a jolt, Harry recognized the disguise. “Malfoy,” he hissed, pulling the cloak off of his head.

Malfoy made one last aloof scan of the square and unfolded his limbs to melt into the alley. Harry still couldn’t get over the uncanny resemblance to Sirius that he’d last seen in the Hungarian village more than a year ago.

“About time,” Malfoy growled under his breath.

“Couldn’t you have found a more vile place?” Harry said, trying not to breathe.

“Oh for—are you a wizard or what?” He flicked his wand, sending a whoosh of clean air into Harry’s face that left behind something that felt like an invisible Bubble Head. “And take that thing off. That floating head thing is just creepy.”

Fighting the urge to stick out his tongue, Harry slid the cloak off and cast a Muffliato, but still kept his voice low. “I wasn’t sure if it was safe to do magic yet, wanker. Why the disguise?”

Malfoy grimaced and jerked his head toward the opening. “Like I want those peasants to know who I am. Only Dolohov and the Inner Circle know my real identity. Everyone else knows me as _Le Coeur Noir_.”

Harry couldn’t keep from barking a laugh. “The Black Heart? Right, Malfoy. Compared to the rest of Dolohov’s followers, you’re a Pygmy Puff.”

Malfoy stuck his nose in the air. “I told you before, it’s all in the presentation. After you pointed it out, I saw no reason not to take advantage of the resemblance to Sirius Black. People see what they want to see.”

With a final eye-roll, Harry got down to business. “He’s here?”

“Arrived about ten minutes ago. I expect him to summon the deputies any minute.”

“We’d better hurry, then. Where are the children kept?” The first team Harry planned to bring in had been chosen for their skill in setting nearly impenetrable wards and was assigned to secure that building so Dolohov couldn’t use his most vulnerable hostages as weapons again.

Malfoy pulled a parchment from his pocket and, with a flick of his wand, stuck a crudely drawn map to the wall. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to a space between two buildings, then moving his finger across the map to a building near the edge of the village boundary. “The children are here. There’ll be three guards, but I just sent over a… erm, decoy with some Firewhiskey, so they’ll likely be distracted.”

Harry scowled, squelching the urge to jump to the rescue. He could just imagine what kind of “decoy” Malfoy had sent, and what means he had used to send it. “Where will he be?”

“Here.” Malfoy pointed to a building at the top of the village square. “He’ll address the crowd and watch the revelry from the reviewing stand on the steps of the town hall. I suspect he’ll start by dealing out his brand of ‘justice’ to someone.” Malfoy winced and grabbed his left arm. “Speaking of which…”

“Malfoy, wait!” Harry said, stopping him as he turned. “Take this.” He held out his Invisibility Cloak.

Malfoy stared at it a moment before cocking an eyebrow at Harry. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. Do you have the walnut on you?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “I told you I’m not hiding behind my mother’s robes anymore, Potter.”

“I know, but I might not be able to protect your identity if you’re captured with the rest of them. Take the cloak and use the walnut to get yourself out if it comes to that, but don’t wait too late. It’ll get you past the Portkey wards over the village because it has my magical signature, but it won’t work at our base camp.” They stared at one another for a moment. Harry finally huffed. “Malfoy, it’s not a sign of cowardice. You’ve been more than brave, but there’s no reason to be stupid about it.”

Malfoy searched Harry’s eyes for a couple more seconds before grabbing the cloak and stuffing it into his trousers pocket that must’ve been magically expanded on the inside. “You do realize you might never see this again?”

Harry smirked. “I’ll see it. And you, too. Use the Portkey, Malfoy. I’ll come to the safe house to let you know when the coast is clear.”

“And if it doesn’t clear?”

Harry looked away. He didn’t intend to lose, but he wasn’t fool enough to think it wasn’t possible. “In that case, contact Hermione. I’ve told her what to do.”

After another moment of intense scrutiny, Malfoy nodded curtly and turned on his heel. Harry watched until he disappeared from view, then cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and took the map from the wall.

He brought Summers in with the first team. The two of them split up and positioned the next four groups at the compass points around the village to overlay Dolohov’s boundaries with their own anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards, as well as barriers to prevent anyone from leaving on foot or by broom. Once that was done, they took evenly spaced positions around the perimeter so Hermione and her team could use the amulets to activate the map. Within twenty minutes, the entire strike force was in place.

“Except for a few guards scattered around the village perimeter, most of Dolohov’s people and their captives are near the square,” Hermione’s tinny voice spoke into Harry’s ear.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then.” While Hermione passed the word to the team leaders, Harry made his way through the deepening twilight to join the other two members of his own team in a shadowed corner near the brightly lit square. Ron was wide-eyed at the sight of the “festivities.”

Summers sent Harry a conspiratorial smirk and leaned over to whisper, “I don’t think the term ‘green rookie’ is usually quite so literal.”

Harry choked back a snort.

Oblivious, Ron breathed, “Blimey. This is worse than _anything_ Voldemort ever came up with.”

“They haven’t even got to the fun stuff, yet,” Harry said, sending a worried glance at his best friend, who really was looking a bit green. “All right?”

Ron gulped, but put on a determined expression. “Yeah. I’m good. Let’s do this before they do any more damage, yeah?”

Harry touched his earpiece. “All set, Hermione?”

“Everyone’s in place. All outlying threats have been neutralized.”

Harry rolled his eyes. She’d obviously been watching too many spy films with Ron. “Thanks. Tell everyone to hold their positions until I send the signal.” Keeping his eyes on the empty reviewing stand, Harry muttered over his shoulder to Ron and Summers, “I want to wait until—”

The town hall doors burst open and Malfoy—disguise gone, stripped to the waist, and badly beaten—was shoved onto the stage by two oversized goons. Dolohov paraded out behind with his two other deputies.

“Shit!” Harry hissed.

“That’s him, yeah?” Summers murmured.

Harry nodded, barely holding onto his reflexive urge to spring into action.

“Greetings, my loyal followers,” Dolohov boomed. He gave a grand wave toward Malfoy’s twitching form at his feet. “It seems our illustrious Potions Deputy has volunteered to provide the evening’s entertainment.” He paused to wait out the raucous cheer from the crowd, then clasped his hands behind his back and prowled back and forth as he launched into a pompous diatribe.

Harry’s mind raced. Malfoy was in no position to defend himself and, if they started the battle now, Dolohov might just kill him outright to prevent his escape.

“He’s holding something,” Ron whispered, pressing a pair of mini-omnioculars into Harry’s hand.

Whipping the lenses to his face, Harry released a relieved breath. Malfoy had somehow managed to hang onto the walnut and was struggling to keep his convulsing fingers around it.

“Give me a boost,” Harry said. Years of working together meant he didn’t even have to explain; Summers automatically cast a controlled _Wingardium Leviosa_ to hold Harry six feet off the ground. Leaning his shoulder against the wall at his side, Harry rested his wand hand on his other forearm to steady his aim and cast the spell he wasn’t even sure would work from this distance. “ _Portus Severus_.”

The walnut glowed blue. Malfoy disappeared.

In the resulting stunned silence, Summers dropped Harry to the ground and tapped his amulet to send the attack signal. Dolohov roared. The battle began.

Fighting his way through the melee, back to back with Summers and Ron, Harry kept his eye on his goal. Dolohov screamed in rage at his failed attempt to Disapparate. When his Portkey refused to work, he blasted his two bodyguards off the stage, then turned and ran into the building. Harry took off after him, ignoring Summers’s shout to wait.

The interior of the hall was dark and muffled in comparison to the blinding, deafening chaos of the square. Harry paused behind a statue inside the door to allow his eyes to adjust and to listen for clues to the direction he needed to go. He sensed more than heard the movement across the room and ducked just in time to avoid the jet of orange that shattered the statue’s arm, right in front of where his head had been.

“Give it up, Dolohov,” Harry shouted, then put his wand to his throat to send his voice to another corner in what he could finally see was a huge space supported by three rows of stone columns. “You won’t get away this time.”

The other corner exploded in purple. Harry’s Stunner blew away half a pillar where the spell had originated.

Dolohov’s laugh echoed off the stone walls, hiding his position. “You’re still too soft, Potter. You fight like a little girl, afraid to do what is necessary to win.”

“And you’re an arrogant coward.” From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Summers and Ron sneak through the doors; he signaled them to cover the rear exit. “Come out and duel face-to-face like a man. We’ll see who can do what’s necessary to win.” He dived for the next pillar just as the one he’d been hiding behind exploded in a fiery blast. The roof groaned and sent a shower of pebbles to the floor.

At the sound of footsteps running away, Harry leapt to his feet and followed, swearing viciously when he reached a set of steps and nearly crashed into a ward designed to fry the body to a crisp. Before he could dismantle it, Summers shouted, “He’s on a broom!”

“Get to the children’s building!” Harry called, turning into his Disapparition and silently praising the team that had tuned the wards so perfectly to allow only those with amulets to do so. Ron and Summers appeared at his side almost instantaneously, just as Dolohov dived straight for them and the three team members assigned to protect the building. Harry’s shield deflected Dolohov’s Blasting curse, but kept Summers’s Stunner from hitting its mark.

Harry laughed out loud when Dolohov’s attempt to set the building ablaze fizzled. “You’re too predictable, you wanker,” he shouted.

But Dolohov was also a skilled flyer and managed to avoid every curse fired his way from the six people on the ground. When all of his attempts to destroy the building failed, he shot off across the village, disappearing quickly in the deepening twilight.

“Bugger!” Harry said, wishing desperately for his own broom. He tapped his earpiece. “Hermione, Dolohov’s on a broom. Which way is he going?”

“Looks like he’s circling the perimeter, most likely searching for a way out. Wait! He’s just stopped near the south point.”

Harry looked at Summers, who had stationed that part of the team. “That’s a wooded area. He’s probably planning to hide until the wards lift.”

“How does everything else look?” Harry asked Hermione.

“We’ve brought four of our team back and have more than a dozen of theirs in custody—most from the Portkey darts and three from snatched amulets. Uh, oh… several of Dolohov’s people are headed his direction. He must have a way to communicate with them.”

“Or they’ve just worked out the same plan for themselves,” Ron said. He’d been listening through his own earpiece—a special privilege for a rookie, based on his personal relationships.

“How many, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Five.”

Harry looked at Ron and Summers. “Do we need reinforcements?”

Summers cocked an eyebrow. “Since when did you become such a nancy boy?”

 _Since I have someone to answer to._ But Harry pushed the thought away and scowled. “Wanker. Take us there.”

Summers Apparated to the edge of the woods, pulling Harry and Ron along with him through their amulets. They surprised two Death Eaters and subdued them without a fight, then with only a look between them, cast night-vision spells and moved silently into the trees, fanning out to cover more ground.

Hermione’s voice spoke quietly over the earpieces. “There’s one directly ahead of you, Ron. One to your left, Scott.”

Leaving them to it, Harry stayed his own course, careful to keep his footsteps soft in the mossy undergrowth as he eased along from tree to tree. He shook his head at the yelp and a muffled crash to his right; Ron needed some work on his stealth skills.

“Two prisoners in custody,” Hermione said after a moment. “Scott and Ron, you each have one directly ahead of you. I have no way of knowing which is Dolohov.”

After only a second’s thought, Harry veered to his right. Ron was a good fighter, but less experienced. If he went up against Dolohov, he’d need all the help he could get; Summers would be able to hold his own until they got there, if he hadn’t already managed to bring Dolohov down by himself.

Harry rounded a tree to find Ron jabbing a Portkey dart into a hog-tied man’s shoulder and the prisoner disappeared in a blue glow. Harry nodded his approval and gestured for Ron to follow. They crept quickly but quietly through the shadows until a lightning storm of spell fire erupted in the trees ahead. They took off at a run.

Harry threw out his arm to keep Ron from crashing into the dueling dome that filled the small clearing. “Bollocks! Go to the other side,” Harry shouted. “Use blasting curses. Try to find a weak spot.”

After several moments, Harry had to admit that unless Summers could meet their blasts from inside, this dome was impenetrable. And Summers had more on his mind than destroying the dome. Dolohov clearly had the upper hand. Summers stumbled and barely managed to roll out of the way of a vicious-looking spell as the cord holding his amulet snagged on a root and snapped. Staggering to his feet, he almost didn’t get his full-body shield in place to block a second blast. He was struggling just to defend himself, much less cast any curses of his own. Dolohov had obviously mastered the use of the dome as a dueling tool.

Harry watched helplessly, desperate to find some way to help. “Hermione! Get us some back-up. Dolohov’s trapped Summers in a dueling dome. We need every wand we can get here to blast it apart.”

Almost before he’d finished speaking, Summers lost his footing and went down hard. Dolohov was on him in an instant, slashing a purple jet of flame that sent Summers into convulsions before he went unnaturally still. Instantly the dome in front of Harry’s face disappeared, then reappeared, trapping Ron with Dolohov and leaving Summers outside of the sphere.

Harry screamed in impotent rage. “It’s me you want, you fucker! You coward! Come and get me!”

Dolohov just laughed and lazily shielded himself from Ron’s onslaught. Unable to do anything to help Ron, Harry threw himself to his knees on the ground beside Summers.

“Harry! I can’t find Scott. What’s happening?” Hermione’s voice was almost piercing in its panic.

He slashed his wand over Summers. “ _Viscus Debello,_ ” Harry snapped. “I’ve cast a Stasis, but we need to get him back.”

“I’m not getting a reading. Where’s his amulet?”

Harry scrabbled around frantically, but it was no use in the dark. “ _Accio_ Summers’s amulet!” It hit his palm and he slapped it onto his friend’s chest. “Hermione, go!”

“Harry, look out!”

At Ron’s voice, Harry looked up, hand still planted on Summers’s chest.

The dome was gone. Dolohov’s ice-blue spell filled his vision. Harry blindly cast _Sectumsempra_. The hook in his navel jerked him into what felt like a stone wall.

The last thing he heard was Hermione screaming in his ear.

***

Sitting on the bench in the early morning sunshine outside the Harpies’ locker room, Val looked as lost as Ginny felt. Training started again today, and Ginny had no idea how she was going to concentrate. They’d gone three full days with no word. Hermione had said this could happen, but Ginny hadn’t really believed her.

Christmas had been a dismal affair, worse than the year Harry, Ron, and Hermione were on the run, and almost as bad as the year after, their first without Fred when Ginny was at her lowest point. Her family’s forced gaiety and the underlying worry they sent her way had been nearly more than she could stand.

Boxing Day had been even harder. She’d spent an hour before lunch with Healer Andrews, and the rest of the day flitting between the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, depending on whether Mum’s fussing or the absolute silence had got to her more. Sleep hadn’t been an option.

Now, Ginny’s heart went out to Val. They’d owled each other several times over the past couple of days, but this was the first time they’d seen each other. Dropping her bag onto the ground, Ginny sagged onto the bench, weary with the effort it had taken to make it that far.

Val lifted her eyes, the flicker of hope in them extinguishing at once when they met Ginny’s. “No word, then.” It wasn’t a question.

Ginny shook her head, and Val went back to staring at her hand. The sun danced tiny rainbows through the diamond on her finger, making Ginny’s heart clench as she remembered watching them in her own ring forever ago.

“Have you told Gwen?” Ginny asked.

Val shook her head. “I was going to today, but now…” She ran a hand over her face. “I just… I think I should wait. I don’t want to have to explain…”

Ginny closed her eyes, unwilling to let Val see her own pain at the possible ending to that sentence. “Yeah. I know.” Raising her head, Ginny glared at the mocking pristine blue overhead. She couldn’t imagine trying to make Gwenog Jones understand what they were going through—their captain had no patience whatsoever with “sodding weepy women.” Dating and marriage weren’t forbidden, but personal relationships had better not interfere with performance or there was hell to pay.

“I can’t take them off,” Val said, her voice trailing off into a whisper. “How am I going to take them off?”

The ‘no jewelry’ rule was there for the players’ safety, but at this moment Ginny hated it for tearing her friend apart. Fortunately, she also knew what to do about it. Taking Val’s hand, she pulled her wand and muttered the spell as she tapped the rings. They immediately blended into the pale peach skin lined with soft blue veins.

Val gasped. “What did you do? I can still feel them, but—”

“Disillusionment Charm,” Ginny said. “I used to use it for Harry’s ring, once upon a time.” At the questioning look Val gave her, Ginny sighed. “I was stupid and returned it. But when he comes home, if he doesn’t offer it to me, I’m going to ask for it back. I know he’s still got it. It was his mother’s.”

Val gave Ginny’s hand a squeeze.

As they sat in silence for several moments drawing strength from one another, Ginny came to realize that she finally had a friend who _really_ understood what she was going through. Yes, her family loved Harry and would be heartbroken if something happened to him. But they couldn’t know how devastated she felt with the other half of her soul in danger of being ripped away. Hermione probably had an idea, but she got to participate. She didn’t have to sit on the sidelines and passively wait for news.

Ginny wrapped her arm around Val. “They’ll be okay.” It sounded empty, but they had to keep telling themselves that, or they’d both go mad.

Several faint pops of Apparition sounded from the direction of the entry gate. Ginny had no interest in dealing with the curiosity of their teammates. She prodded Val off the bench. “Come on. We’d better go in.”

“I have no idea how I’m going to get through practice,” Val said, shouldering her bag. She turned tear-bright eyes up to meet Ginny’s. “I don’t think I can do it.”

Hearing voices coming up the path behind them, Ginny dragged Val inside to an empty meeting room, flicking a Muffliato at the door as it closed. She grabbed Val’s shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You _have_ to do this. Do you want everyone asking questions? Do you want the press to find out about you and Scott while he’s not here to help you deal with them? We have to pretend that nothing’s wrong. Concentrate on practice. Pretend that they’re at the Ministry, doing paperwork, and that we’ll see them for supper tonight. We can get through this, if we stick together.”

Val nodded, scrubbing at her eyes as she sniffled. Ginny conjured a tissue and handed it to her. After blowing her nose, Val straightened and lifted her chin.

“All right?” Ginny asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I can do this.”

Ginny felt her own spirits lift a bit. Having to be strong for someone else was a good way to keep from sinking into despair. With a smile that she knew looked forced, Ginny nodded. “Okay. Good. I think we could both use a make-up charm or two.”

Val snorted. “Or maybe a full glamour… or Polyjuice.”

Ginny swished her wand to turn the window into a mirror and they removed most of the traces of sleeplessness and tears before joining the parade of their teammates down the hall. They quietly filled Kelby in on the situation, but managed to avoid any other questions by getting their gear on and heading to the pitch as quickly as possible.

Practice was pathetic. Fortunately, most of the team was either hung-over or still in holiday mode, so Val and Ginny didn’t stand out _too_ much. Even so, Gwenog was not pleased, to put it mildly. She set them all to doing remedial drills at a grueling pace, which suited Ginny perfectly—the drills took just enough concentration to occupy her mind, but not enough to make her have to really think.

Late in the afternoon, she had just made yet another wide shot at the goal when Val’s harsh whisper broke through her mental fog.

“Ginny! Look!”

Swinging out of the line of players to float next to Val, Ginny looked at the ground where she was pointing. Gwen was standing at the side of the pitch next to three people… one of whom was tall and red-headed. And, now that she was looking more closely, Ginny realized the short, thin one with a braid down her back looked far too familiar, too. The third barrel-chested one was wearing red robes, which meant—

“No!” Ginny gasped.

Val immediately picked up on her fear. “Who is it? What’s wrong?”

Ginny couldn’t find her voice. There was only one reason she could think of that Ron and Hermione would show up here in the company of an Auror. Without thinking, Ginny turned her broom into a headlong dive, vaguely aware of Val at her tail. Landing hard, Ginny dropped her broom and covered the remaining stretch at a run, pulling up short just a few feet from the solemn group. The fact that Gwen didn’t shout at them to get back in the air set off all sorts of alarm bells in Ginny’s head.

“Take this inside,” Gwen said before Ginny could say a word. “The press isn’t supposed to be here today, but you never know.”

Those uncharacteristically almost-gentle words sent ice into Ginny’s veins. Val’s fingers dug into her arm during the silent walk to the changing room, but Ginny couldn’t take her eyes off of Hermione, the one person who would tell her the truth.

Once they were inside, Hermione turned to Ginny before the door was completely closed. Her whisper was almost too quiet to hear. “I’m sorry.”

Ginny’s breath caught. Her lungs burned with the need for air, but refused to expand. Her brain melted into a muddled mess.

And then Hermione looked at Val… and repeated the words. “I’m so very sorry.”

 _No!_ No, they couldn’t both be gone. Harry couldn’t be… no! Ginny would know. She’d feel it, surely, if he were…

“—not dead, but we don’t know exactly what curse he used.”

“Wait! Back up!” Ginny blurted as Hermione’s words started to sink in. Val was about to crush the bones in her wrist, but Ginny couldn’t be bothered with the pain. In fact, it was keeping her focused. “Say that again.”

Hermione cast a pleading look at Ron, who had come around to lay an arm across Ginny’s shoulders. But he just nodded, so Hermione started again.

“According to the monitoring spells on the tracking amulets they were wearing, they’re both alive. We just can’t find them. It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.”


	58. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds himself in an impossible situation... again.

Harry rose slowly back to consciousness with his head pounding and Hermione’s frantic voice in his ear.

“Harry! Harry, where are you? Please say something. Tell me where you are.”

Her pleas continued, but several moments passed before he could push away the heavy blanket swaddling his brain and force his voice to cooperate. “’M’ere, ’Mione.” It came out as a croaking whisper, but she should have been able to hear.

“Harry, please. I know you’re just now conscious, but please talk to me. I can’t get your Portkeys to work. Where are you? I’m getting some horrible readings on Scott. We need to get him to a Healer right away. ”

_Dolohov… Summers… that bloody purple curse._

As the memories hit, Harry started fighting the lingering darkness, but slumped in relief when he heard distant voices. The search party was close, then. Brilliant. He didn’t think he had the strength to get Summers back to camp by himself. Whatever Dolohov had hit them with was at the very least physically draining, and Harry hated to think about other possible effects.

Drawing on every ounce of energy he could find, he lifted his eyelids then quickly dropped them into a squint. He blinked a couple of times at the bright haziness before he could make out the forest blurred into watercolors by a thick fog. Bloody hell. The sun was already up. How long had he been out?

Taking inventory of his limbs and organs by way of the pains shooting through them, he rolled onto his side and levered himself to a sitting position so he could look around.

Hang on. That wasn’t right. Harry put a hand to his face to be sure the Sticking Charm had held on his glasses, then ran his fingers under them to scrub at his eyes. Nothing changed.

Not ten yards away, a half-dozen team members watched Ron point and gesture as he talked. But as close as they were, Harry could barely hear him… and no one seemed to notice that he and Summers were on the ground right in front of them.

“Harry! Harry, are you there?” Hermione pleaded. “Please say something. Please let me know you’re okay.”

“I’m here, Hermione.” He spoke more than loudly enough for her to hear.

“Harry, please answer… please…”

Okay, maybe the impact had broken the speaking part of his Enchanted Ear. But Ron and the others should’ve heard. They were right here.

“Ron!” Harry called, wincing at the resulting throb in his head. When he got no response, he gritted his teeth and put everything he had into a shout. “RON!”

The sound reverberated between Harry’s ears and should’ve carried all the way back to camp, but no one looked his way as they split up and began searching the woods.

Oh, bugger! What had Dolohov done?

A low moan interrupted Harry’s escalating worry. Nearby, Summers was shaking, agony etched into his face. Praying that whatever limbo Dolohov had sent them to hadn’t cut off his magic, Harry dragged himself over the short stretch of ground and waved his wand to renew the Stasis Charm that should slow the organ damage and internal bleeding as well as numb the pain somewhat. He held his breath for a moment, then released it in a slow hiss as Summers’s face relaxed and his raspy breathing receded.

“Hang in there, mate,” Harry murmured as he tucked Summers’s cloak around him and cast a warming charm for good measure. “I’ll get you out of here as quick as I can.”

That promise worried him. The Stasis would need to be renewed at least every eight hours, but he wasn’t sure how long it would hold off the inevitable. Summers needed a Healer or six, and he needed them _now_.

Pushing himself gradually to his feet, Harry had to pause several times to let his head stop spinning and coax his muscles into working. When he was finally upright, he flung out a hand to steady himself against a tree… and hit nothing but air. He landed face down, wincing at jarred injuries and struggling to recapture the breath knocked out of him.

Wait! Something was… strange.

He lifted his head slightly, so he could focus on the ground that lay several unexplained inches below his nose. The fog swirled in front of his glasses, softening the mossy greens and browns into muddy pastels. Harry inhaled; at the very least, he should be able to smell the heavy mulch. Nothing. He pushed his hand against the fog, but the earth remained just out of reach. Rolling to his side, he looked at Summers… who appeared to be lying on a thin cloud.

Adrenaline shot through Harry’s veins. Leaping to his feet, he tore through the woods, grasping at trees and bushes, trying desperately to touch, to feel something… anything. When he swiped an arm through one of the search team members, his fear spiked into panic.

He stumbled back into the clearing and threw himself down beside Summers, grabbing his shoulders and whispering apologies at the grunt of pain, even though Harry couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip. The solidness of another human being grounded him, reined in the rising terror. Drawing several deep breaths, Harry closed his eyes to clear his head and put his thoughts in order. He had to slow down. If he were going to get them out of this—whatever Dolohov had done to them—he had to stop and think.

Right. First order of business, find a way to communicate. A Patronus. Yeah. That should work.

Relieved to come up with such a simple solution, he stood and opened his eyes to cast the spell, but froze as his gaze fell on a vaguely familiar mound lying half in shadow across the clearing. His brain took a second to register that it was a body.

A body? Why would they leave a body lying in the open like that? Peering hard through the fog, he could just make out the shimmer of a protective ward surrounding it. An important body, then.

Muscles limp and protesting after his adrenaline rush, he staggered to his feet and forced his way to the mound, skirting the pool of blood before he remembered it wouldn’t matter. As he caught sight of the face, a hysterical giggle bubbled from his gut.

Dolohov stared blindly toward the sky, his neck bent at an unnatural angle from the point where it was held onto his shoulders by only a narrow strand of sinew and skin. The image of Nearly Headless Nick flashed through Harry’s mind and another slightly insane chortle escaped. He’d intended only to take Dolohov’s wand hand off with that wild _Sectumsempra_. Sickening as it was, this was better. He’d finally managed to stop the bastard for good.

But before the thrill of victory could take hold, a curl of mist drifted past Harry’s nose. He took a step back, dizzy with realization: Dolohov had had the last laugh.

Harry’s shock shifted instantly to rage. He kicked viciously at Dolohov’s head, intending to separate it completely from his body and send it soaring through the trees. Instead, he landed on his arse with a thud.

Dolohov’s glassy eyes and permanent smirk taunted him.

Harry roared and rose to his knees to pound relentlessly at the frozen grin, growing more furious with each impotent blow, desperate to completely annihilate the wizard he’d come to hate even more than Voldemort.

Finally, energy spent, he bent double, resting his sweat-soaked head on his forearms and dragging in ragged breaths. “You bastard,” he finally rasped, looking up through his dripping fringe. “What did you do, you fucking shit?”

Dolohov’s sneer seemed to grow.

A cold fist closed over Harry’s heart. Oh, God, what if they couldn’t get out. What would happen to—

 _No!_ He shoved his thoughts away. He couldn’t get distracted. He couldn’t… _wouldn’t_ let Dolohov win… not like this. With a growl, Harry pushed himself to his feet and turned his back on the smirking bastard.

 _Come on, Potter. Get your head out of your arse and do something productive._ The voice in Harry’s head sounded suspiciously like Summers’s. But it was right.

Harry shook his head to clear it, retrieved his wand from where it had fallen, and cast with all the confidence he could muster, “ _Expecto Patronum_.” He went weak with relief when Prongs appeared, poised for action and awaiting instructions.

“Find Hermione…” Merlin, what could he tell her? Best keep it short for now. “Hermione, I can hear you, but I can’t talk to you over the link. Just… let me know if you get this message.”

The great stag leaped away, but then slowed and cantered in circles as if confused. After a moment or two, he stopped and turned toward Harry with what could only be described as an apologetic look before dissolving into a wisp.

“No! It’s got to work! _Expecto Patronum!_ ” He tried six more times before finally slumping to the ground in defeat.

_Don’t tell me you’ve given up already._

Harry snorted. There was no doubt about the curse’s potential to drive its victim mad. He was already hearing voices. Harry glared down at Summers, still as unconscious as ever. “No. I’m just… thinking. Give me a minute.”

_I don’t have a lot of minutes to give, yeah? Get moving._

“Bossy sod,” Harry grumbled, dropping his head into his hands. _Think, Harry!_ Talking and touching didn’t work. Neither did a Patronus. But his magic didn’t seem to be otherwise affected, and so far, the curse hadn’t kept him from moving around…

“Be right back,” he said, jumping up and running through the trees to test his boundaries. He soon reached the edge of the village where he could see the usual post-mission clean-up activities in progress. The fog was just as thick and he was just as invisible here, but suddenly a group converged on the place he was standing and began searching the area frantically.

“Harry, I’m showing you in the village, but we can’t find you,” Hermione nearly shouted in his ear. “Please, Harry. Let someone know where you are.”

He tried shooting sparks with his wand, blasting a rubbish bin, and writing in the dirt. Nothing worked. But it was clear that he’d have a better chance at finding a way to communicate if they were closer to other people… or, rather, one particular person.

He dashed back to the clearing and knelt beside Summers. “Hey, mate. We need to move, but I don’t want to hurt you. I’m going to try a Body Bind and Levitation to keep from jolting you about, but I’ll leave your face and voice free so you can let me know if it’s too much, okay?” Harry didn’t really expect an answer—and didn’t get one—but he felt better telling Summers the plan anyway.

Their progress was slow until Harry remembered that he didn’t have to worry about bumping into trees. But even pushing himself as fast as his aching head and body would allow, it still took more than three hours to reach the base camp. Hermione spoke to him over his earpiece every now and then, obviously charting their progress on the map and directing the search team to follow them, but each time she sounded less and less hopeful of getting an answer.

By the time the camp came into view, her voice had grown quiet and strained with emotion. “Harry, I’m going to pretend that you’re okay and you can hear me. Maybe your remote is broken or something; I know you would respond if you could. Anyway, I’m going to open up your link to all of the channels so you can follow the search and try to help if you can. Just… just, please, let me know you’re all right as soon as possible. I… I can’t go back and tell Ginny and Val… Oh, God, Harry. Ginny made me promise to bring you and Scott back safely. How can I tell her—”

She broke off abruptly, but not before Harry caught the sob cut off by the buzz of conversation crackling to life in his ear. He stumbled to a stop. He’d been deliberately trying _not_ to think of Ginny and Val and what this would mean to them. But if he let his mind go there, now, it would only slow him down. He had to keep his head together if he was going to get out of this hell.

With renewed determination, Harry pushed into camp and found Hermione red-eyed and mumbling to herself. She scrutinized the map, looked around the tent, then stared at the map again as she shook her head and mumbled some more. After watching her a moment, Harry realized that she wasn’t really mumbling—the curse fog was dampening the sound. Gently releasing the Levitaton spell and removing the Body Bind on Summers, Harry pulled his earpiece out and cast a hearing enhancement spell. He blew his breath out in a whoosh when Hermione’s voice came through a bit louder, though not as clearly as it would without the fog between them.

“That just can’t be right. It says they’re right here. Why would it say they’re here?” She whirled around, flaring the lamps and carefully scanning every corner of the tent. “Where _are_ you, Harry?” she whispered.

Harry tried his Patronus again, thinking now that he was right next to her, the stag would be able to find her—it didn’t work. Neither did using _Sonorus_ to shout at her, writing on her parchment with his wand, or setting fire to the cushion on the chair. He even tried Legilimency, though he’d always been rubbish at it. His magic seemed to be limited by the boundaries of the fog. After half an hour, he screamed in frustration and flopped to the ground with a huff.

Summers let out a small moan, his face contorted with pain. Flicking a Tempus into the air, Harry swore under his breath and quickly renewed the Stasis Charm. Summers took a little longer this time to settle back into slumber.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Harry dropped his chin onto them and gave in to his anxiety. “What am I going to do?” He knew Summers probably couldn’t hear, but he couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words once it started. “I don’t have a fucking clue what Dolohov’s done to us or how we’re going to get out of this.”

For once, the Summers-voice in Harry’s head remained silent. Exhaustion and despair moved in to fill the void, and suddenly the real fear that he’d pushed away all day refused to be ignored any more. “Oh, God, Scott, I’m so, so sorry. You’ve been married only, what… five days? What am I going to tell—no, I guess I won’t be telling your wife…” Harry choked on a humorless laugh. “That sounds so strange... your wife. I should’ve known the world was gonna end when you, of all people, got married. But, yeah. I guess I won’t be telling your wife… Val anything, will I?”

Harry swallowed back the emotion clogging his throat. “Or Ginny either.” He took off his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Merlin, they were burning... must be from lack of sleep. Apparently the fatigue also affected his mouth because he found himself saying things he would never say if Summers had been conscious. “I was gonna ask her, you know… to marry me… I was going to do it first thing when I got back… just snatch her up and kiss her and tell her the hell with what her family or the world thinks, let’s do it… just the way you and Val did.” He heaved a sigh. “I know, I know… it’s too soon. We’ve got way too many issues to work out, but… I love her and I can’t imagine living without her.”

Harry rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on. He shifted around, trying to get comfortable, but when he ended up with his head inside of a trunk that he’d tried to lean back on, he gave up and just lay down next to Summers.

A stream of people came in and out of the tent, but Harry let their conversation wash over him until someone wished Hermione _Joyeux Noël_ on the way out. He’d forgotten it was Christmas.

He’d never got a present for Ginny.

The thought deflated Harry’s already dwindling spirit. He should be working on a way to get them out, but his head was pounding again and his limbs were so heavy. Even knowing that Summers was in pain, Harry envied his friend’s oblivion. Wouldn’t it be nice to just close his eyes and forget about everything for a while? 

Harry canceled the hearing enhancement spell and willed his mind and body to relax. Maybe with some luck, he could sink into the darkness and never come back up. But, no. After what seemed an eternity, Harry gave up chasing sleep and opened his eyes to see what Hermione was up to. In an instant, he was on his feet, recasting his hearing charm. Ron, looking extremely nervous, had just walked into the tent with Robards and Minister Shacklebolt on his heels.

“What’s going on, Granger?”

Hermione scowled at Robards’s gruff tone, but gestured at the table. “This map is keyed to the amulets given to the strike team members. These two” —she swished her wand to zoom out the designated area— “belong to Harry Potter and Scott Summers. This one belongs to Ron.”

At the obvious implication, Robards frowned and looked around the tent. “Is there a chance the amulets were removed from their bodies and hidden here?”

Hermione lifted her chin. “No, sir. Anyone removing them would be transported directly to our holding cell, and had the amulets been properly deactivated first to prevent that, they should no longer appear on the map.”

Harry moved to stand at the table where three tiny lights pulsed within the display. He took a couple of steps to the side and watched his light move in response.

“There! See?” Hermione nearly shouted. “Harry’s light moved. His amulet can’t be just hidden here.”

Harry’s heart leaped. Maybe he’d finally found a way to communicate.

“The problem is, I don’t see Potter,” Robards said. “Something’s not working right. Weasley, you said Dolohov hit them with a spell you’d never seen, right? Maybe that broke the charm on the amulet.”

“Or maybe it didn’t,” Ron said, quickly adding, “Sir.”

“Explain,” Robards barked.

Ron gulped but stood a little straighter. “Well, sir. What if the amulets are working just fine, but Dolohov’s spell made it so that we can’t see or hear Ha—Aurors Potter and Summers?”

 _Yes! Thank you, Ron!_ Harry vowed never to call his best friend thick again.

Hermione was way ahead of them. “Harry, if you can hear us, face me and take two steps to your right.”

He nearly fell over his feet doing it.

Shacklebolt’s eyebrows went up in surprise, then down in a frown. “Potter, what’s going on? Why can’t we see you? Why can’t you talk to us?”

Harry was relieved when Hermione jumped in to offer a solution to answering questions. “Harry, step to the right for yes and to the left for no. Have you tried making contact?”

Harry stepped to the right and back into his original position.

Hermione worried her bottom lip for a moment. “Can you do magic?”

Step right.

“Have you tried a Patronus?” Robards asked.

Step right.

“Did it work?”

As he stepped left, Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione mirrored him behind Robards’s back. Sometimes he wondered how the man had ever got into a position of leadership.

“Harry, I can’t make your Portkeys work from this end,” Hermione said. “Have you tried them?”

Giving himself a mental slap, Harry stepped left, then crossed to kneel beside Summers. He held his breath, afraid to hope as he touched his wand to the amulet and muttered, “Phoenix.” Nothing. He hadn’t really expected it to work, but the disappointment was crushing anyway. His feet felt like lead as he trudged back to his place beside the table.

Hermione’s face reflected his feelings. “It didn’t work.” It wasn’t really a question, but Harry dutifully stepped left.

For nearly an hour, the questions went on. The three of them asked about the things he’d tried, his condition, Summers’s status, and the parameters of the curse. His frustration grew by the minute. The questions were straying further and further from the things they needed to know, and he had no way of telling them that with just “yes” or “no” answers.

Shacklebolt finally called a halt. “This is getting us nowhere and it’s getting late. We might never come up with the right combination of questions to present a proper solution. Mrs. Weasley—Hermione, do you have any ideas for facilitating communication?”

The little “thinking crease” appeared between Hermione’s brows. “I might, sir.”

“All right, then. Assign one of your team members to help finish processing captives and take care of the paperwork for this mission. Your new job is to find a way to bring Potter and Summers back.” Shacklebolt looked between Ron, Hermione, and Robards, his face conveying that his next words held great importance. “I don’t want this to get out. If Dolohov’s remaining followers learn that he was able to defeat Harry Potter, they might be able to rally their forces before we can round them all up. In fact, this entire mission should remain secret until we can follow up on the information we’ll gather from today’s captives. Weasley, go and pass the word that the secrecy charm for this mission will remain in effect until further notice.”

Ron nodded and, with a quick glance at Hermione, left the tent.

“Sir.” Hermione squared her shoulders in a show of confidence Harry was sure she didn’t feel. “What do we tell Scott and Harry’s families?”

Shacklebolt pressed his lips together for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. We tell them nothing for now.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Nothing! How can we not—”

“I said _for now_.” Shacklebolt’s deep voice brooked no argument. “They wouldn’t have been able to share the details of this mission with their families and, if they followed standard procedure, they left no time table for their return. If anyone asks, they are rounding up Dolohov’s stragglers.”

Hermione was livid, but she managed to sound calm as she tried one more argument. “With all due respect, sir, Scott has been married less than a week. And it’s not common knowledge, but Harry and Ginny Weasley got back together a couple of weeks ago… and she’s listed as his next of kin. If I were those women, I’d want to know what’s happening. It’s not right to leave them hanging like this.”

Harry took several deliberate steps to the left—he didn’t want them telling Ginny anything yet, not until they’d had more time to break the curse. But of course, Hermione either didn’t see or ignored the light on the map.

Shacklebolt shared a glance with Robards before turning back to Hermione with a gentle look. “I see your point, but I still think we should try to solve this before we tell them anything. If we’re lucky, Potter and Summers will be back before anyone realizes something is wrong.”

Harry jumped emphatically to the right. Hermione’s head turned slightly toward the map, and Harry jumped to the right again. Her shoulders slumped, and she curled one side of her mouth into a grim smile. “Looks like Harry agrees with you.”

Shacklebolt nodded. “All right, then. Let’s wait two days. Does that meet with your approval, Potter?”

Harry stepped to the right again. Two days wasn’t nearly enough, but it would do for now.

Shacklebolt gave a curt nod and turned to go, then stopped and looked back in Harry’s direction. “By the way, except for this… setback, good work, Potter.”

Harry snorted. Setback. Major cock-up, more like.

For several moments after Robards and Shacklebolt left, Hermione sat at the table with her head in her hands. “You do know she’s going to kill me for not telling her straight away, don’t you?”

Harry took a slow step to the right. Hermione grunted a humorless laugh and sniffled loudly as she lifted her head. She was fighting tears, and he wished more than anything that he could offer her some comfort.

“How do you _always_ get yourself into these situations?” she asked.

He rocked to the left and right several times, and her real laughter made him smile.

“All right, you prat. Let’s see about getting you back here so I can pound you for making my life difficult.”

Harry ran around in a circle, just to see if he could make her smile again.

She did, but it faded quickly as she cast a despairing look around the tent. “The problem is, I really need to be at the Ministry so I can use the library and the case file archives. But you certainly can’t walk to London from here. Have you tried to Apparate?”

Harry stepped cautiously to the left.

“Can you try?”

He hadn’t really thought about it before, but now he worried what would happen if he Splinched himself. Would he be able to put himself back together before he bled out? And if not, who would take care of Summers?

But they really did need to get to London.

Digging deep for his Gryffindor courage, he gripped his wand and stepped into his turn. Surprised to find himself in one piece on the opposite side of the tent, he returned to his original spot with a thrill of triumph. Apparition was much less stressful in this state—as if he became part of the fog instead of squeezing through solid matter.

Hermione held her hands together beneath her chin and raised her eyes heavenward. “Thank you.” She looked back toward Harry. “Do you think you can Side-Along Scott?” 

Harry looked down at Summers. Even though he was calm at the moment, the tension in his face said clearly that he was in pain. Under normal circumstances, Harry wouldn’t dream of Apparating with him, but what choice did they have?

Levitating Summers into a standing position, Harry wrapped an arm around his waist, struggling a bit to steady the dead weight that towered over him by several inches. “Hang on, mate. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t necessary.” Closing his eyes, Harry turned.

When they appeared across the room, Summers cried out and began shaking violently. Harry quickly laid him down and cast the Stasis Charm… once… twice… three times before Summers quieted.

“Did it work, Harry?” Hermione’s eyes were huge and she seemed to be holding her breath.

How could he possibly answer that question? Yes, he _could_ do the Side-Along, but he wasn’t sure he _should_ do it… especially all the way to London. He stood and rocked back and forth.

Hermione understood. “It’s too hard on him, isn’t it?”

Harry stepped to the right.

She paced back and forth, muttering to herself for a couple of moments before stopping and staring in Harry’s direction. “We’ve _got_ to get to London. It’ll be so much easier to find a solution there. Come with me.”

Harry watched her move toward the tent opening in shock. Did she really expect him to go to London and leave Summers here?

Just before stepping outside, she stopped and looked back at the table where Harry’s light hadn’t moved. “Harry, come _on_. I want to talk to the Healers to see if there’s anything we can do to help Scott make the trip more easily.”

Oh. Well, all right, then.

Forty-seven minutes and twenty-three questions later (Harry counted them), they weren’t much better off than before. The _Viscus Debello_ counter-curse was extremely complex and required at least two people—preferably qualified Healers—to cast successfully. They were going to have to make do with a Deep Slumber Charm and a Body Bind, which wouldn’t stop the pain but, supposedly, would make Summers less aware of it.

After Summers’s reaction to their first tiny hop, Harry’s stomach was in knots at the thought of taking him long-distance. So, while Hermione talked with her deputy team leader about the mission wrap-up, Harry cast the slumber and binding charms and made a test jump across the tent. The tension in his gut loosened a bit when Summers just gave a slight grimace.

“Harry, I’ve charmed my amulet to alert me if the two of you are more than ten feet away so I won’t leave you behind without realizing it. I think we should make as few jumps as possible. Let’s do the Ministry Apparition points in Prague, Frankfurt, Brussels, and London. We’ll rest for half an hour at each place to keep from stressing Scott too much.”

She kept rattling on, but Harry’s mind had got stuck on Prague. What if they couldn’t Apparate that far? And he certainly wasn’t going to take Summers along without testing it first.

“Harry? Are you listening? I asked if you’ve got Scott ready to go. All I’ve got to do is…”

Rocking back and forth to keep her from rushing off, he focused on his destination and turned. The fog was just as dense, but Harry could still recognize the Prague Ministry Apparition point. He returned to the tent feeling much better about the trip.

Hermione was frantic. “Harry! Oh, God, Harry. Where did you go? Your light disappeared and the alarm went off on my amulet and—” She went from fear to fury in an instant. “Don’t you _dare_ do that again, Harry James Potter! You scared me half to death!”

Harry wished desperately for a signal that could convey an apology.

She closed her eyes, dropped her chin, and took several deep, deliberate breaths. “All right.” She raised her head to look in Harry’s direction. “I guess you did have to test it before taking Scott, and you didn’t have a way to tell me, but please don’t disappear like that again. I promise I’ll find a way for you to communicate better, but until then, just… please don’t do that anymore.”

He took a small hop to the right, trying to say “okay” and “I’m sorry” in the quick motion. She picked up on his meaning, breathing out a quick “thank you” before swishing her wand to finish her packing.

***

Even though Harry found the trip less stressful than normal, it still took its toll on Summers. They had to add fifteen minutes to each successive wait time, and the last hour, before they could take the final jump to London, had nearly driven Harry mad. He just wanted to _be_ there already, so he could try to relieve the agonized moans coming from his friend.

Once they reached the office, Harry settled Summers in an out-of-the-way corner and frantically cast several charms the Healers had said might help. He held his breath for a terrifying few minutes until the furrow in Summers’s brow smoothed a bit and his groans receded into occasional gasps. Harry cast the Deep Slumber Charm once more, then slumped back on his heels as Summers’s breathing leveled.

After removing his own outer cloak to make a pillow for Summers, Harry turned around to find Hermione with her arms braced on the conference table, focused on whatever she was reading. When he stood and took a couple of steps in her direction, she lifted her head.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

From this vantage, Harry could tell she’d set up the map again and had been watching their dots. He rocked back and forth a couple of times, but then took a deliberate step to the right—Summers was as okay as he could be at the moment.

She nodded. “Good. I’ve worked out a better way to communicate.”

Harry followed her pointing finger to the floor where the desk had once stood. The alphabet was laid out in a rectangle of five rows of five letters each, with the Z in the middle at the bottom. Yes, No, and Maybe were spelled out below, and down one side was a list of names—Dolohov, Robards, Shacklebolt, Scott, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. The last one made Harry’s heart jump.

“This will be a bit cumbersome,” she said. “I’ve charmed the letters to appear on the wall when your light hovers over them on the map, so you can spell out words. I’m sure you’ve worked out what the other words are for; we can add to the list as we go.” After a moment, she gestured as if she were pushing Harry forward. “Well, go on. Try it.”

He walked over and stepped onto the T. It appeared in glowing red on the wall to his right. He had to hop a bit to get to the H but the A was just a wide step. N was hard to hit, K was only a little easier, and he missed making the jump to the last letter.

Hermione smiled at the message: T H A N K R. “I guess I need to adjust the spacing a bit.” She waved her wand to erase the letters on the wall.

Harry walked quickly over to the YES.

With a swish of her wand, the size and spacing of the letters and words on the floor shrank. Harry tried again and easily moved through the sequence to correct his spelling. But, in spite of his relief at being able to say more than yes or no, he soon grew frustrated beyond measure. The process was agonizingly slow and physically demanding. And after a couple of hours answering Hermione’s questions about the curse effects, he finally could do no more.

T I R E D

“Yes, I know you must be. Oh, my! It’s nearly half eleven. I didn’t realize it was so late.” Hermione said. “I’m sorry to work you so hard, but I just thought we might… Well, we can start again in the morning. You try to get some sleep.”

Y O U T O O

She smirked. “Harry. How well do you know me? I’d never be able to sleep right now, not until I’ve checked the library for possible references to the curse. Besides, I want to wait for Ron to get back. ”

Harry frowned. Ron should’ve been back hours ago. As a trainee, he wouldn’t be involved in the interrogations.

W H E R E I S H E

Hermione ducked her head, suddenly focused on straightening her notes. “Erm, I… I’m sure he’s helping with the clean-up.”

She knew more than she was telling. Harry stepped out his question again.

With a heavy sigh she looked up. “He’s with Robards. Since he was the only other one there, they’re questioning him about your disappearance.” She chewed her lip for a moment, then gave him a weary look. “They asked him to submit to Veritaserum.”

Too angry to worry about spelling anything coherent, Harry jumped all over the letters, wishing desperately for punctuation to convey his outrage.

“Harry! Stop! It’s all right.”

NO NO NO NO

It wasn’t all right. How dare they think Ron was at fault somehow? He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Really, it’s fine, Harry. Ron was glad they suggested it. He’s hoping their questions will pull out some detail he’s forgotten.”

NO 

Harry stomped on the word again. Veritaserum was second only to Legilimency in its violation of the mind—no different than rape when used on an unquestionably innocent man. But he knew it didn’t matter. It was probably too late to stop it anyway. Suddenly weary beyond words, he trudged over to collapse beside Summers.

“Harry. It’ll be okay. I promise.” She must’ve realized he wasn’t going to answer because she gathered her notes and waved her wand to lower the lights. “Get some rest. I’ll be back first thing in the morning, and we’ll solve this. We’ll find a way to get you both out of this mess. I promise.”

When she was gone, Harry tossed and turned for nearly an hour before finally sitting up to prop his elbow on one knee and rest his head in his hand. Not counting the hours he’d been unconscious, he hadn’t had any real rest for going on two days. But in spite of his exhaustion, sleep remained elusive. He hadn’t thought much of it when he hadn’t been able to do more than doze lightly in the tent earlier, but now he suddenly realized that, even though he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since before the raid, he wasn’t hungry or thirsty… and hadn’t felt the urge of other normal bodily functions, either.

Was that because of the curse? If so, it might be a blessing in disguise. But Harry also suspected that there might be a more sinister reason behind keeping a victim from slowly wasting away.

He cast a worried glance at Summers and removed the Body Bind he’d left on when they’d arrived. The trip had been so jarring, he’d hoped keeping Summers “swaddled” would give him a better chance to recover. A small frown was the only response to the change, and Harry let out a slow breath.

But his relief was short-lived as the pieces started to come together in his mind. The curse allowed its victim to see and hear, but not interact with the world outside. It held its victim in a curious stasis, with no need for sustenance of any kind, seeming to maintain whatever state he was in when cursed. But what would that mean for…

With a gasp, Harry jumped to his feet. He knew exactly what the curse was meant to do: keep someone in this limbo, unable to get out even by death… forever.

***

The next two days went by in a flurry of questions and research and brainstorming. Harry was even able to help with searching the books Hermione had got from the library when he asked her to charm a spot on the floor that he could step on to turn pages. Her grasp of such complicated magic never ceased to amaze him.

Since their situation was top secret, Ron was the only other person helping them. He’d accepted Harry’s apology for being subjected to interrogation with a lopsided smile. “It’s okay, mate. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, if it would help. I just wish it had given us something new to work with.”

By the time Robards showed up mid-afternoon on Thursday, they were no closer to knowing what the curse was and how to counter it than when they’d begun.

“Sir,” Hermione said as Robards began to show signs of leaving. “It’s been two days.”

Harry rushed to make NO flash onto the wall.

Hermione frowned and shook her head at him. “We have to, Harry. They need to know.”

W O N T H E L P

“Harry—”

M A K E H E R I L L Harry stepped out quickly.

Hermione sighed. “I know. I’m worried about that, too. But not knowing might be worse for her.”

“She’s right, mate.” Ron said. “We need to tell her something. Mum and Dad, too. I haven’t even let them know we’re back because they’d have so many questions about you that I can’t answer, but I know they’re probably all going barmy.”

“And Val,” Hermione said. “She’s a newlywed. It’s just not fair to leave her hanging like this. We need to let them know.”

Robards watched the interplay from the door, arms crossed, his face carefully blank. When finally he spoke, his voice was stern, but not unkind. “Don’t tell them the whole truth.” He held up a hand to stop Hermione’s protest. “Tell them that Potter and Summers are missing, but not about the curse. That part doesn’t need to get out anyway, and if they don’t know, they can’t let it slip.” He looked in Harry’s direction. “Does that work for you, Potter?”

Harry stood still for a moment. He didn’t want them to tell Ginny anything yet. If she thought he was still on the mission, she wouldn’t know to be worried more than normal. But what would it do to her to _know_ he was missing, even if she didn’t know about the curse? All he could think about was the last time this had happened—she’d gone completely round the twist and sent him away. But she’d said she was better now. And she could talk with her Mind Healer if things got really bad.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice broke into his reverie and he heaved a sigh before stepping reluctantly onto the letter board.

O K

Hermione let out a relieved breath and Ron nodded.

“Standard procedure is for a representative of the Auror Division to visit the families,” Robards said. “Where can Miss Weasley and Miss… erm, Mrs. Summers be found right now?”

Hermione cast an anxious look at Ron. He nodded at her unspoken question and looked at Robards. “They should be at the Harpies training facility. They’re both on the team and practice started again today.”

Robards grunted and turned, but stopped at the door to look back. “Well? Are you coming?”

As they grabbed their cloaks and rushed to follow Robards, Hermione looked over her shoulder. “We’ll be back soon, Harry. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

He stared at the closed door for only a couple of seconds. “Bollocks to that.” After quickly stepping out a message on the wall and checking to be sure Summers was still sleeping, Harry spun into his Disapparition.

***

With no anti-Apparition wards to stop him, Harry landed in the middle of the Harpies practice pitch long before Ron, Hermione, and Robards arrived. He’d made the decision to come so quickly, he hadn’t prepared himself for seeing Ginny again, and the first sight of her shook him to core. With her red hair, she stood out amidst the cluster of witches on broomsticks overhead, but even from this distance and through the fog, she looked strained. Her movements were sluggish, and she didn’t make a single goal in the half-dozen attempts Harry watched. Val was harder to find in the crowd, but she looked even worse than Ginny.

He knew the moment Val spotted Robards talking with Gwenog Jones… and the moment when Ginny realized what was happening. She hit the ground running and stopped almost on top of him. Up close, she looked ragged—her face was pale and her eyes betrayed the panic she was trying to mask with a stiff spine and a determined lift to her chin. All that seemed to be holding Val together was her death grip on Ginny’s arm.

As they made their way to the changing room, Harry’s gut clenched. This was going to be bad. Very, very bad. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Jealousy at Ron’s ability to put an arm around Ginny’s shoulders caused a physical ache in Harry’s chest. He wanted more than anything to wrap her up and tell her everything would be okay.

“Wait! Back up!” Ginny blurted. “Say that again.”

Harry started paying attention to the conversation as well.

“According to the monitoring spells on the tracking amulets they were wearing, they’re both alive,” Hermione said. “We just can’t find them. It’s like they’ve vanished into thin air.”

Val let out an anguished cry and Ginny took a couple of minutes to comfort her before lifting her head, blinking her own suspiciously bright eyes, and zeroing in on Robards. “What’s being done to find them?”

Surprisingly, the Head Auror spoke gently. “We have our best people working on it. We’re hopeful of bringing them back very soon.”

Harry barked a bitter laugh. The old troll _could_ be tactful when he wanted to.

Ginny looked at Hermione. “You’re helping?”

Harry thought for a moment that Hermione was going to say something she probably shouldn’t, but she just pressed her lips together and nodded.

He had the feeling Ginny wanted to say more, too, but after a fleeting glance at Robards, she gave Hermione a steely look. “You’ll keep us informed.” It was a command, not a question.

Hermione flicked her own eyes at Robards and nodded again.

“We’ve come to you because you’re listed as next of kin, but we ask that you keep this information as quiet as possible,” Robards said. “You may tell your immediate families, but please don’t let it go any farther than that until we know more. The Minister doesn’t want the press or the remaining fugitives to know anything until we have a chance to finish wrapping up the mission—we don’t want to put Potter and Summers in even more danger.” Ginny stroked Val’s back as she choked back another sob, while Ron and Hermione shared a covert glance at the convoluted half-truth. Robards ignored them all. “The official story is that Potter and Summers are rounding up the last of Dolohov’s operatives.”

Ginny pierced him with a look, daring him not to answer. “And Dolohov. Has he been captured?”

Robards turned to Ron. “You were there. Tell her what happened.”

Harry would have given anything to be able to flash “NO” on the wall. The last thing Val needed to know was that Scott was hurt. But Ron handled it all right.

“He’s dead. Harry killed him.”

Ginny briefly closed her eyes and let out a small sigh before looking back at Ron. “So how did they disappear?”

Ron’s eyes met Hermione’s for a moment—probably asking how much he should say—before he continued. “Dolohov cast some strange, non-verbal curse at them at the same time Harry cast _Sectusempra_ and nearly took Dolohov’s head off. It all happened really fast. Harry and Scott were gone before I could do a thing.” Ron shook his head and gave a humorless laugh. “Much as I’m glad the bastard is gone, I almost wish he was still here so we could torture that curse out of him.”

Robards intervened with curt condolences and a reminder to keep the information quiet, then sent a warning look at Ron and Hermione as he left. Harry wanted to hit him for being an arse, but at the same time was grateful that he’d been kind to Ginny and Val.

“We need to tell Mum and Dad,” Ron said, when the door clicked shut.

Ginny wrapped her arms more tightly around Val. “I know. I need to get her home first. Can you meet me at the Burrow later? Maybe at… seven?”

“You’ll be all right, then?” Ron still had his arm across Ginny’s shoulders and seemed reluctant to let her go.

But Ginny nodded, a stubborn jut to her chin. “I’m fine.” Her tone dared anyone to deny it.

Ron and Hermione shared a look. Hermione gave a tiny shake of her head and Ron eased his grip on Ginny.

“We’ll contact the rest of the family to be there, too,” Hermione said. “That way we can tell everyone at once.” She put a gentle hand on Val’s shoulder. “Please let us know if you need anything.”

Val lifted her head slightly and nodded. “Thanks” came out as a harsh whisper.

Harry stayed behind when Ron and Hermione left. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Ginny to deal with Val’s grief all alone, even if she didn’t know he was there.

“Oh, Merlin, Ginny. What are we going to do?” Val wailed.

Ginny clutched her friend close, and finally allowed her own tears to fall. After several long minutes that nearly drove Harry insane with the need to hold her, she drew in a heavy breath and swallowed hard. “We’re going to put one foot in front of the other and make it through each day minute by minute,” she said quietly in Val’s ear.

“How? How can we do that when we don’t know where they are or if they’re hurt or even if… if…”

Ginny grabbed Val’s shoulders and gave her a little shake. “They’re alive. Didn’t you hear Hermione? They’re alive. And until we hear differently, we’re going to believe that they’re okay and that they’ll be home soon.” Ginny ducked so she could look into Val’s eyes. “Don’t you remember what you told me just a few days ago when I asked how you could bear Scott’s dangerous career? You said, ‘I try not to think about it too much. I just try to stay busy and pray to every deity out there for his safety.’”

Val gave a soggy snort. “That was before it was real. I had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Maybe so, but you had the right idea. We’re going to stay busy and pray and keep each other from going completely round the twist with worry. We’re going to be strong and never give up hope. It’s what Scott and Harry would want us to do.”

Val pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose, then threw back her shoulders and nodded at Ginny. “You’re right. We have to be strong.”

Ginny dried her own tears. “Good girl. Come on. I’ll take you to your mum’s. We can Floo-call Scott’s parents from there.”

In spite of feeling like it had been whacked with a Beater’s bat, Harry’s heart swelled with pride. Ginny looked more like the girl who’d argued with her mother to be allowed to fight Death Eaters than the ghostly waif on the stairs at the Burrow. Maybe she would be okay, even if—

No! He couldn’t give up hope yet, not when Ginny was still holding onto it so bravely.


	59. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help comes from an unexpected source.

Keeping her face carefully blank, Ginny concentrated on the familiar scars criss-crossing the Weasley kitchen table while Ron and Hermione shared the news about Harry.

The whole family was there. Charlie had even delayed his return to Romania when Ron had Floo-called his mother about the meeting. They were properly shocked and concerned by the news, making all of the right sounds, asking all of the right questions, but they didn’t even try to hide the worried glances they sent her way. All of them were tensed as if they might have to leap up and catch the pieces when she started to fly apart. Ginny wanted to scream. _Harry_ was the one in danger. Couldn’t they see that she needed them to worry _with_ her, not _about_ her?

Val and her family had never faced anything like this, even during the war—unfortunately Scott’s family had—but they’d all come together to support Val and each other in their vigil.

Ginny was jealous.

She didn’t mind being strong for Val, but she shouldn’t have to put on such a front for her own family. The whole point of telling them that she’d got back together with Harry was to have their support in just such a time as this. But despite their recent experience with loss, they didn’t seem to know what to do, as if they were afraid that one wrong word or move would tip her over the edge.

Well, all of them except George. He looked like an explosion waiting to happen. She could almost see the spark traveling up his fuse. 3…2…

“I _told_ you this was going to happen!” He jumped to his feet, shaking off Angelina’s restraining hand and jabbing a finger at his father. “You never should’ve let that wanker back in this house. Look what he’s done to her!”

“Enough, George!” Dad said over the ensuing chaos. “This is neither the time nor the place for that discussion.”

But Ginny was well past enough. She stood and raised her wand, firing her own red-spark explosion toward the ceiling to get their attention.

“Just stop. Please.” She leveled her gaze at George and put steel in her voice. “There is _never, EVER_ going to be the right time and place for _any_ discussion of driving Harry away. I am going to say this for the _last_ time, so listen carefully: Harry was _NOT_ at fault for what happened to me in the past.” She scanned the faces in the room to be sure they understood how serious she was. “Harry was the victim, not the criminal. _I_ was the one who let myself get into that state. _I_ was the one who held everything in. And _I_ was the one who shut everyone out.”

They were all watching and listening with wide eyes and pale faces. Mum pressed a hand against her lips and stifled a sob.

“But I’m not shutting you out now. I’m not that girl anymore.” Ginny lifted her chin, daring them to object. “I’ve worked through those problems and, even though I still have bad days, I’m not in danger of… of… falling off my broom anymore.” George looked away, flexing his fists as if he wanted to hit something. Ginny’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion and emotion hitting her like a Bludger. “I need you to stop wrapping me in Cushioning Charms and just… just… let me _feel_. I’m worried and I’m scared and I just need you to… I just need…”

She choked on the knot in her throat. Her vision blurred. And just as her legs gave out, her mother’s arms caught her. Collapsing against that familiar, well-padded shoulder that had collected so many of her tears over the years, she surrendered to the work-roughened hand stroking her hair and the gentle voice crooning in her ear.

“It’ll be all right, my sweet baby girl. Everything’s going to be okay.”

That’s all she’d wanted. Just someone to hold her and tell her it would be okay… even if it might be a lie.

***

Ginny felt hollow. After she’d stopped crying, she’d sat in her mother’s lap like a six-year-old for nearly an hour. But she thought she’d given as much comfort as she’d got. Mum considered Harry one of her own.

Everyone else had hung about the kitchen, talking quietly at the table until someone—Angelina or Audrey, Ginny thought—had set out sandwich makings. Bill and Charlie had cornered George for a lengthy, intense, low-voiced discussion, then left him to brood in a chair near the scullery. Ron and Hermione had stayed only long enough to eat, then headed back to the Ministry with assurances of keeping everyone posted on the search.

Ginny wondered if they would really tell her anything, especially if it wasn’t going well. She didn’t care one wit that the Minister himself had ordered them to wait two days to tell anyone Harry had gone missing, Hermione had _promised_ to keep her posted. But apparently that meant nothing when things went arse up.  Ginny was pretty sure she wouldn’t hear anything any time soon. Hermione was already so immersed in the search that she wouldn’t come up for air until it was done. Even tonight, she’d seemed distracted, her attention drifting away from conversations as her eyes flickered about the room, almost as if she thought Harry might walk out of the shadows.

Ginny had finally wandered into the dark sitting room and curled sideways into Dad’s saggy armchair, staring blankly through the window at the moonlit landscape. She could hear the rest of the family taking their leave, but they didn’t intrude on her solitude. That was fine. They’d all expressed their love and support, and at this point, nothing else they could say would make things easier.

She leaned her head against the worn upholstery, her eyes focused on the icy world outside. Harry was out there somewhere. Was he cold… hungry… hurt? Her breath hitched in her chest, but she swallowed the urge to cry. She didn’t have any more tears right now, anyway.

The house grew quiet, except for the murmur of Mum and Dad’s muted conversation in the kitchen. Ginny sighed. She should probably go. She hadn’t really meant to stay the night, but she couldn’t bring herself to consider going to Harry’s, and the thought of being alone in her flat made chills run up her spine. Despair settled over her like a mist as she caught a glimpse of her empty future. She had no place to go. All of the hopes and dreams of the past week had blown away like snowflakes in a blizzard, and her thoughts slogged like cold treacle. In spite of her brave declarations, the lure of the abyss was growing stronger by the minute.

A shuffled footstep echoed in the darkness. Ginny glanced over her shoulder to find George standing in the doorway, the light from the kitchen throwing harsh shadows over his profile. She looked back toward the window, hoping he would take the hint and leave before she said something she’d regret.

“Gin.” His voice sounded rough and pleading. “Can we talk?”

No such luck. She sighed, but didn’t move. “I don’t really have it in me to fight with you any more tonight.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

She shrugged. Outside, an owl took flight, silhouetted against the nearly-full moon.

“I want to say I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I don’t mean to make things worse for you.”

“Did Bill and Charlie threaten to hex you if you didn’t apologize?” She sounded peevish, but she was tired of George’s bullheadedness, tired of fighting to convince everyone she wasn’t insane, tired of… well, just tired.

“They made me see that I’m hurting you more than helping you.”

Ginny snorted. “So you listen to them, but you won’t listen to me? Brilliant. I’m a nutter so I can’t possibly know my own mind, can I? Poor, confused Ginny. She needs her big brothers to tell her what she should think and how she should feel, to protect her from herself because otherwise, she might get hurt.”

She could hear him shifting restlessly behind her, but resolutely kept her eyes glued to the scene beyond the window. Several long moments passed before he spoke again.

“I deserved that. I’m sorry.”

Ginny let the silence stretch before finally turning to face him. “I appreciate that you feel a need to protect me. But this is one demon I have to face by myself.” She stood and took several steps into a shaft of moonlight so George could see her face and understand the truth of her words. “I love Harry. I will _always_ love Harry. Even if we hadn’t got back together, I would love Harry and be just as upset that he’s missing. If I never see him again, I will love him forever. And if I go mad from missing him, it’s nobody’s fault but mine. It’s nobody’s _choice_ but mine.”

George sucked in a breath, but didn’t say anything.

Ginny took a little pity on him. “Don’t worry. I’m not giving up yet. Hermione said he’s alive, so I’ll hang onto hope with both hands until…” She swallowed hard, then forced the words out. “… until they show me his body. And even then, I might wait a few days to be sure.”

George gave a bitter little laugh. “You see? This is what I’m talking about. How can I stand by and let him hurt you like this?”

“Harry hasn’t done anything except be Harry. He would never do anything _just_ to hurt me.” Cocking her head, Ginny studied him. “You seem angrier at him than this all really warrants. I have to wonder if you’re not blaming him for more than just _my_ problems. Have you thought about talking to a Mind Healer? I can recommend a good one.”

He laughed outright, a hard, bitter sound. “Doubt it would help. Don’t think I’m meant to be sane.”

She walked over and put her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. “I love you, George. I don’t like you very much right now, but I expect we’ll work it out eventually.”

She felt his tension drain away as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dropped a kiss into her hair. “I hope we will, Sis. I hope we will.”

***

Harry got back to his office at the Ministry well past midnight. If not for the other problems with the curse, he might like being able to Apparate through wards.

“Harry! You’re back.”

Hermione’s voice startled him. He hadn’t expected her and Ron to still be there, but he should’ve known better.

“You’ve been with Ginny this whole time?”

With a weary sigh, he stepped over and made YES flash onto the wall.

Ron came to stand beside Hermione and put an arm around her waist. His voice was gravelly when he spoke. “Is she really as all right as she pretends? Considering?”

Harry hesitated beside the letter board, trying to decide how much to say. Ginny was much better than he’d expected, but he’d still hated watching helplessly as she cried herself to sleep in her old bed at the Burrow, then muttered through her dreams for more than an hour before finally settling. He hadn’t been able to drag himself away until she did.

YES M O S T L Y, he finally stepped out. W A N T T O H E X G E O R G E

Ron chuckled grimly. “You’ll have to get in line behind the rest of us. But I think Bill and Charlie talked some sense into him.”

N O T M U C H S T I L L A W A N K E R T O GINNY

“He talked to her?” Hermione was more surprised than Harry thought she ought to be.

A F T E R E V E R Y O N E L E F T

He waited for Hermione to clear the wall, then jumped in again.

GINNY T O L D H I M T O S E E A M I N D H E A L E R

“She’s probably right about the Mind Healer,” Hermione said. “George has almost as many issues as she does. I don’t think he’s ever properly dealt with Fred’s death, and anger management is becoming a real problem.”

Ron snorted and shook his head. “I’ll have a go at him tomorrow.”

W O N T H E L P

“Just try to be nice,” Hermione told Ron. “For all his faults, George really does love Ginny. He might be persuaded to talk to a professional if you could convince him it was for her sake.”

Soon after, with promises to be back early the next morning, they dimmed the lights and said goodnight. The day’s activities finally caught up with Harry. Knowing he’d never sleep, in spite of the exhaustion that suddenly seemed to weigh on him like a wet cloak, he lay down an arm’s length from Summers and tried to make his mind shut down and his body relax. But the silence grew loud and the night closed in, resurrecting ancient memories of long hours in a small, dank cupboard. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alone. He lasted only a few minutes before he had to move.

As gently as he could, he rolled Summers onto his side and bunched his cloak up along the front of his legs and chest to keep him from tipping on over. When he got only a small grunt in response, Harry breathed in relief, then scrambled to stretch out back-to-back behind Summers. They’d done this plenty of times before, sharing body heat on cold missions when it was too dangerous to use magic. Now, Harry just needed the physical contact, the feel of another heartbeat. And when he closed his eyes, he could _almost_ pretend it was Ginny spooned up behind him.

God, he missed her. Watching her be brave for Val and then having to beg her family for their support had nearly torn him in two. She shouldn’t have to be going through this. Not after the hell she’d been through that year after the war. And he hated being the cause of her anguish _again_. Her words to George rebounded to stab him in the gut: _I’ll hang onto hope with both hands until they show me his body… if I go mad from missing him, it’s nobody’s fault but mine… nobody’s choice but mine._

Harry shuddered. If he never got out of this—and he was beginning to believe that possibility—they wouldn’t have a body to show her. Would she really never let hope die? Would she really choose madness instead of moving on? If so, he might have to talk to her before…

He sighed heavily. More than anything, he wanted to hold her in his arms again. But if it wasn’t meant to be, he wanted even more for her to just _live_.

***

The next few days were mind-numbing for Harry… except when he was watching Ginny—then they were excruciating. Seeing her slog through the hours, trying so hard to keep up her brave front—and not being able to do anything about it—left him frustrated and frazzled and bolting back to Hermione to frantically join the search for clues. Until his brain gave out again and he succumbed to the certainty that they’d _never_ find out what the curse was and, therefore, never find the counter-curse. He and Summers were doomed to this living hell forever… and Ginny would never move on.

During those moments of deep depression, he’d lie with his back against Summers’s, ignoring Hermione’s pleas not to give up hope. Then Ron would jump in and make some seemingly clueless comment about something Ginny had said or done, and Harry wouldn’t be able to keep himself from going to see her. And the cycle would start again.

But by New Year’s Eve, he was spending more time lying next to Summers than doing anything else.

Not being able to touch anything in the “real” world was driving him mad. Hermione called it sensory deprivation. Harry called it torture. He couldn’t feel the heat of the fire or the cold wind on his face, he couldn’t smell the meals in the Weasley kitchen or the flowery scent of Ginny’s hair. Sounds were muffled, unless he enhanced them with a spell. He longed to eat, even though he wasn’t hungry. He sometimes cast _Aguamenti_ just to taste the water, but he didn’t _need_ to drink… and he didn’t need to piss or do any of those other things his body normally did. He couldn’t even wank.

“Harry, how is Scott doing? I thought I saw a little blip on his readings.”

Heaving a weary breath, Harry pushed himself onto his elbow and looked over his shoulder at Summers, who was as peaceful as he ever was. Harry lay back down, curling his arm under his head. That was Hermione’s stock question when she hadn’t been able to get a response for a while. He was certain Summers’s “readings” were just fine. Or as fine as they could be.

Since they’d determined that Harry’s body wasn’t functioning as usual, even though he’d been able to heal most of the injuries he received from when the curse hit, Hermione had asked him to lift the charms keeping Summers sedated so she could check the progress of the _Viscus Debello_. For several agonizing moments, Harry had gritted his teeth as Summers writhed and groaned. Then, almost before Hermione gave the okay to put them back, Harry had recast the layers of charms and cradled Summers’s head on his knees until the grimace of pain had smoothed.

Hermione had frowned over her magical charts. Summers’s organs should’ve deteriorated more and his blood supply depleted… but nothing had changed. He was in the same condition he’d been when Dolohov’s second curse hit them. Harry’s skin crawled at the thought of what would’ve happened if Summers had been thrown into this limbo with no one to cast the spells to relieve his suffering.

“Harry, please,” Hermione pleaded now. “You can’t just lie down and stop living. We’re going to get you out of this, I know it. But you have to keep going. I’ve found a couple of new books. Would you please come and look through one of them for me?”

Harry closed his eyes and cancelled the hearing charm. He just didn’t have it in him to hope right now. He needed the touch of another human being, a heartbeat at his back, and fantasies of wrapping himself around Ginny.

But after a few minutes, he realized something was off. Harry sat up and held his breath a moment, tuning in to his out-of-practice senses. His heart jumped as he clapped a hand to his neck. The Galleon under his shirt was warm—not as much as it had always been when activated before, but definitely hotter than body heat would warrant.

Malfoy. How could he have forgotten Malfoy? Aside from letting the git know Dolohov was gone, Malfoy might have some idea what curse the bastard had used. Ignoring the _Coast clear?_ on the Galleon, Harry scrambled to the letter board.

M A L F O Y

But Hermione had her back to the wall, her mouth and hands frantically moving as she stared at his and Summers’s physical status charts. Ron had leapt to his feet and rounded the table. Harry flicked on his hearing charm.

“…your vitals are going crazy! What does that mean? Harry, talk to me!” She whipped around to look at the wall and her jaw dropped.

M A L F O Y M I G H T K N O W C U R S E

“Oh, my God! You’re right! Why didn’t I think of that before? But how can we find him?” Hermione rammed her fingers into her hair and spun around as if searching for Malfoy in the darkened corners. Harry had never seen her so discombobulated; any other time it would be funny.

S A F E H O U S E

“But where—”

“I know,” Ron said. “Let’s go.” He grabbed his and Hermione’s cloaks and steered her toward the door. “Meet you there, Harry.”

Harry had told both of them months ago how to get to the safe house where they’d stashed Narcissa Malfoy, and he was grateful for Ron’s cool head and good memory. After taking a moment to settle Summers on his back, Harry stepped into his turn and reappeared in the sitting room of the cottage on the northern coast of Ireland.

Malfoy was pacing, rolling his Galleon through his knuckles like a Muggle magician Harry had once seen. Narcissa sat in the armchair next to the fire, her hands gripped tightly in her lap as she watched her son.

“Come on, Potter. You said you’d let us know. Where are you?” Malfoy muttered.

Harry grasped his own Galleon and tapped it with his wand. Malfoy stopped and stared at his, then looked at his mother with a scowl.

“Well?” Narcissa asked.

“He says Weasley and Granger are on the way.”

“Oh, dear. What does that mean?

Malfoy began pacing again. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s good. Potter told me he’d let me know when the coast was clear, but if I didn’t hear from him I should contact Granger. I don’t know why he would answer the message, but send them in his place.”

Harry tapped his Galleon again. Malfoy looked at his and stumbled over to collapse onto the end of the small sofa beside his mother. Looking at her with wide eyes, he breathed, “Dolohov’s dead.”

Narcissa put a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. She slumped in a very un-Malfoy-like manner against the back of the chair. Malfoy gripped her hand.

“It’s over, Mother. It’s over.”

Harry had to look away as the proud woman broke down and Malfoy went to his knees, gathering her into his arms—they wouldn’t want anyone to witness this moment. She cried for only a few moments, though, sniffling delicately as she pulled back, her aristocratic bearing in place once more.

“I should go and freshen up,” she told her son with a small smile. “We’ve guests coming.”

Malfoy rose fluidly to his feet and helped his mother from her chair, watching her go into the bedroom with a tiny furrow between his brows. When the door closed, he glanced back down at the Galleon, scowled, then looked across the room at the kitchen area. “Kreacher?” When the old elf appeared and bowed low, Malfoy gave him a respectful nod. “We’ve guests coming. Could you prepare tea?”

Harry was surprised at the way it came out as a request rather than a command, but he also wanted to beat his head against something for not thinking of his own house elf earlier. Kreacher had got him out of danger once before. Why hadn’t Harry thought to call on him this time? Afraid to hope, Harry had to force the word out. “Kreacher?”

The old elf didn’t even flinch. Harry swallowed his disappointment just as the knock came at the door.

Malfoy opened it and stood aside. “Granger. Weasley.” Almost before they’d got inside, he stood back and crossed his arms. “Where’s Potter?”

“Draco. Where are your manners?” Harry turned to find Narcissa exiting the bedroom, head held proudly, all trace of tears vanished. She nodded regally to Ron and Hermione and gestured toward the sitting area. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Please, make yourselves comfortable. May I offer you some tea?”

Ron looked ready to decline, but Hermione put a hand on his arm and led him to the sofa between the two chairs in front of the fire.

Draco was the picture of decorum as they served tea, but once the niceties were completed, he wasted no more time. “What’s happened? I know Dolohov’s dead, but where’s Potter?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you know? And how did you know to expect us here today?” When Malfoy held up his Galleon, she sighed. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? It would’ve made things so much simpler.”

“What are you on about, Granger?” Malfoy was growing impatient. “What’s happened to Potter?”

“We’re hoping you can help us find out.” At Malfoy’s obvious surprise, Ron continued, “We had Dolohov cornered, but he trapped Scott Summers—Harry’s Auror partner—in a dueling dome and hit him with _Viscus Debello_.” Malfoy winced, but Ron went on before he could interrupt. “Once Summers was down, Dolohov moved the dome from him to me.”

Malfoy nodded. “Exploiting Potter’s weaknesses.”

Ron snorted. “No shit.” He cast an apologetic glance at Narcissa, but went ahead. “I thought I was a dead man, but out of the blue, he vanished the dome and threw a curse toward where Harry was tending to Scott. Harry got off a _Sectumsempra_ , but before I could do a thing, Harry and Scott vanished.”

Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. “So, Potter’s got a new signature spell, then, yeah? Hope he took the bastard’s bits off.”

“He did better,” Ron said with a grim smile. “Let’s just say Dolohov and Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington will be able to hold their own _nearly_ -headless hunt on Halloween.”

With a hand going reflexively to his throat, Malfoy gulped audibly before giving a curt nod. “Well, that’s good, then. But why would you think I’d know what happened to Potter and… Summers, is it?”

Ron and Hermione shared a look before Ron spoke again. “We were hoping you could help us identify the curse Dolohov used. It was a bright, icy blue… nearly white.”

Malfoy’s brow furrowed, but he shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t ring any bells. You didn’t hear the incantation?”

Ron huffed in frustration. “It was non-verbal. I could show you a memory, if that would help.”

Damn it! They were never going to get anywhere this way. Harry tapped his wand to his Galleon.

Malfoy looked down at the coin in his hand and held it out to Hermione. “He’s asking me to give you this. How would he know to do that?”

Hermione took the coin and read Harry’s message to her: _Tell everything_. She scowled and held it out for Ron to read, then looked at Malfoy, but Harry knew who she was really talking to. “The Minister has asked us not to divulge the details—”

Gasping, she dropped the Galleon now practically glowing with heat from the magical force of Harry’s emphatic message: _TELL HIM!_

Picking up the coin, she huffed. “All right, then! Fine!” She handed the Galleon back to Malfoy. “Harry’s here, most likely standing right next to you.”

Eyes wide, Malfoy looked to either side of his chair, then stood up to look behind it. “Come out, Potter. I know you’re wearing that bloody cloak.”

“Sit down, Malfoy,” Ron said, his voice weary. “He gave the cloak to you, remember?”

His face a study of confusion, Malfoy sat heavily in his chair. “But—”

“It’s the curse,” Hermione said. “Whatever Dolohov used sent Harry and Scott into some sort of… netherworld. They can move about and see and hear everything around them, but they can’t interact with it. With us. It’s as if they’re invisible ghosts.”

At the sound of her startled gasp, everyone turned to look at Narcissa. She held a hand against her mouth, her eyes were wide, and her face had gone, appropriately, ghostly pale.

“Mother?” Malfoy was on his knee beside her in a heartbeat.

“ _Purgatorio_ _Aeternam_ ,” she breathed, barely loud enough to be heard.

“That’s it?” Hermione asked eagerly. “That’s the spell?”

Closing her eyes, Narcissa nodded and dropped her hand into her lap to grip Draco’s. “Yes. It’s…” She opened her eyes again, but lowered them to stare at the floor. She seemed to be struggling to speak. “Lucius found it… for the Dark Lord. To curry favor after… after Mr. Potter escaped the cemetery when the Dark Lord returned.” She lifted her face, looking as if she’d aged dramatically in the past few moments. “Eternal Purgatory. It must be cast at the moment a Portkey activates.”

Hermione blanched. “Yes. Harry had just told me to activate Scott’s Portkey to bring him to the Healers. He must’ve still had his hand on it. Dolohov probably heard and saw his opportunity.”

“Old Lucius would be proud, wouldn’t he?” Ron snarled, jumping to his feet and flexing his fists. “After all this time that evil bastard finally managed to get to Harry.”

Standing, Malfoy tensed to attack even as Hermione warned, “Ron, don’t.”

But Narcissa put out a restraining hand as she raised her chin. “My husband made some… unfortunate choices, but I—we cannot go back and change them. The only thing we can do now is try to help mitigate the results.”

After trading defiant glares, Ron and Draco took their seats again, but remained guarded. The two women each gave her man a warning look.

“So, you can find the counter-curse, then?” Hermione asked.

Narcissa’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “That’s the problem—I’m not certain one exists. The spell was only ever proved in theory. How would anyone know if it really worked except that the victim disappeared? And then, how would one be able to find the victim to cast the counter-curse?”

Hermione rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Oh, God, you’re right. We wouldn’t even know as much as we do if Harry and Scott hadn’t been wearing the tracking amulets. I’m amazed that the magical connection wasn’t severed.”

Malfoy snorted. “Yes, leave it to Potter to do the impossible… again.”

The four of them sat in uncomfortable silence for several long moments. Irritated at the impasse, Harry tapped his Galleon.

_Can counter be created?_

Looking at the coin in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there, Malfoy shrugged. “I don’t know. Can a counter-curse be created?”

“Possibly,” Hermione said. Harry could almost see the thoughts start to race through her head. She looked at Narcissa. “Do you know where Lu—Mr. Malfoy found the spell? Was it in a book?”

Narcissa shook her head thoughtfully. “I’m… not certain, but I believe he may have found it in an ancient Malfoy grimoire. It would be one-of-a-kind, passed down through the generations.”

“So where is this grimoire?” Ron asked. “Would it be amongst the things the Ministry collected from the Manor?”

An uneasy look passed between Narcissa and Draco. He raised one eyebrow. “I have my doubts anyone would have found it. Or, if they did, they probably didn’t live to tell about it.”

_Can you get it?_

Malfoy glanced at the coin. “I don’t know. Can we get it?” He turned the question on Ron and Hermione.

They looked at one another in silent conversation. Ron finally ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll talk to Robards, and maybe the Minister. If they’ll let you back in the Manor to search, will you do it?”

Malfoy sent his mother a fleeting look, but ignored her subtle head-shake. “What’s in it for us, Weasel? We were left defenseless after the war—no wands, no secure place to live, and we weren’t allowed to leave the country. That’s how Dolohov got his claws into us in the first place. I want some guarantee that we’ll be safe and—”

“Draco, enough,” Narcissa chided gently. “Mr. Potter has protected us. You wouldn’t be here now, if it weren’t for him.” She turned toward Hermione. “If we are allowed free access to the Manor, Draco and I will do what we can to find the grimoire and assist in finding or developing a counter-curse.”

Hermione gave her a gentle smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. We’ll do what we can to be sure you’re provided for adequately.”

 _Always the Slytherin_ , Harry tapped onto his Galleon with a grin.

Malfoy looked down at his and scowled. “Wanker.”

 _Tell your mother thanks._ As Malfoy relayed the message, Harry drew a deep breath and let himself hope again.

***

Ginny zinged the Quaffle away in a maneuver they’d done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. For the first time in three days, the ball went where she wanted... and Val missed it. Again. Flo exploded with a litany of profanity Ginny had never heard even her brothers use.

“Preece! Fowler! Get out there!” Gwenog’s _Sonorus_ -ed shout boomed across the practice pitch as she sent the reserve Chasers in. “Weasley! Morgan! On the ground. NOW!”

Once they landed, Gwen paced before them with short, sharp turns. Ginny inched as close as she dared to Val, who was obviously fighting tears; it wouldn’t do for either of them to show weakness right now.

After what seemed forever, Gwen stopped and faced them, hands on her hips and lips pressed into a line. “Aurors! What the _hell_ were you thinking?” When Ginny lowered her eyes, Gwen snorted. “You know I have to bench you, yeah?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “We have a match Saturday… _Saturday_! Against the Tornadoes! And you’re worthless to me!”

Val choked on a sob, and Ginny grabbed her hand. The hell with looking weak.

Gwen crossed her arms, then brought one hand up to cover her eyes as she shook her head. She slid her hand down over her mouth as she studied them, then dropped her arms as if in defeat. “Do you need a leave of absence?”

“No!” Ginny blurted without thinking. But it was the right answer. “No, please. It’s better to have something to do.” Val had the good sense to nod in agreement.

Gwen stared at them another moment, hands back on her hips. “Fine. But you’re both on reserve. _Second_ reserve.” After they’d whispered their thanks, she shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Merlin, help me, I’ll do what I can for you with the press, but don’t expect them to go away. You’re going to have to deal with them yourselves eventually. Now get out of here before I change my mind and just sack you both.”

By the time they got back to the changing room, Val was in full-on faucet mode. Ginny just held her.

“Come on,” she prodded gently when the flow slowed a bit. “Get changed. Everyone else will be here soon.”

Because it was New Year’s Eve, they had only a half-day practice scheduled, but then had to be back by tomorrow afternoon even though it was a holiday. After all, they had a match on Saturday.

They were packing their kits when the rest of the team came in, eyeing them curiously. Ginny rousted Val into action and guided her toward the door, pausing only briefly to say under her breath to Kelby, “We’ll wait for you in the meeting room off the entry.”

Ginny got them to the small room without incident. She didn’t bother with the torches; they could see well enough by the light coming through the window in the door. Val pulled a chair away from the nearest table and slumped into it, dropping her head into her hands.

“What am I going to do?” she asked in a harsh whisper.

Rubbing a hand over Val’s shoulders in silent support, Ginny sat down in the chair beside her. She was running low on encouragement. They hadn’t heard anything from Hermione since yesterday, and even then it had been nothing new.

Val shifted to slouch against the chair back and stare at the sharp shadows on the ceiling. She drew a thick, soggy breath through her nose, then expelled the air in a long, slow whoosh through her mouth. “I can’t go back to my mum and da’s. I love them. I know they love me, but they’re driving me barmy, tiptoeing around and… and… hovering. Like a bunch of bloody Snitches, they are, swooping around and waving their hands and sputtering.” She closed her eyes. “But I can’t go back to my flat, either. It’s just too… full… of… of _him_.”

Ginny stroked Val’s arm. “I know. I feel the same way. I’ve finally got my family to understand that they need to worry more about Harry than about me, but I still feel like they’re just waiting for me to go off my nut.”

Kelby slipped quietly in the door and turned a chair around to sit across the narrow table from them, obviously bursting with news. “You missed it.” She waited until Ginny and Val’s eyes were trained on her before letting the bubble pop. “Gwen came in and said that anyone who spoke to the press about either of you would be suspended without pay for two weeks and on probation for the rest of the season.”

Ginny almost had to push her jaw back into place with her hand. “She’s human. I never would’ve believed it.” The remark earned an almost-smile from Val, until Ginny added. “We’re still on reserves, though… for now, anyway.”

Kelby gave a sympathetic grimace, then stared at the table and traced the scarred wood with her fingers. “Any news?”

With a heavy sigh, Ginny crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on them. “No.”

They sat in the silent dimness for a while, listening to their teammates’ chatter as they passed by, headed toward the main gate. Most of the conversations were about plans for the evening, but Ginny’s and Val’s names made it into the mix much more than Ginny would’ve liked… not that she hadn’t expected it.

The press was going to be a whole other problem. Gwen’s threat to the team might delay the onslaught, but Friday was press day, and the reporters we going to be all over them when the roster for Saturday was posted. Ginny would normally just let Fleur handle it, but that wasn’t an option this time. Hermione might have some advice—the Ministry might even want to manage the story, since they didn’t want it known that Harry and Scott were missing. But even if they were found today, Ginny and Val wouldn’t be playing on Saturday. And it might be a lot longer than that, if—

“So!” Kelby’s voice sounded loud in the half-light. “What are we doing tonight?”

Val snorted. “Can’t say I’m up for the pub.”

“Me, either,” Ginny said sadly. “But don’t let us stop you going.”

Kelby gave a sharp laugh. “Yeah, like I’d be able to have any fun without my best mates along. We’ll just have our own party,” she insisted. “Sleep-over at mine. Lots of wine and Chinese takeaway and chocolate. And best of all, no press.”

“Your place is about the size of an owl cage,” Val said. “Where would we all sleep?”

“We could go to mine,” Ginny said, startled by her own voice. She shook her head when Val looked at her with concern. “No, it’s okay. We… we stayed at his place. He’s never…” She couldn’t finish. Her flat held no memories of Harry, and might never. She pushed the thought away. “It’ll be fine. We’ll put cushions on the floor by the fire, so we’ll be right there if any news comes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “But I need to go and tidy up a bit. It’s been a while since…” As she trailed off, Val and Kelby averted their faces. This was going to be hard. But they all needed it. “Just go on. Get the wine and food and meet me there in about half an hour. We’ll be fine.”

They _would_ be. She just had to keep telling herself that.

***

Stretched out next to Summers, pretending to sleep, Harry lifted his head in surprise when the flames flared green and Hermione stepped carefully from the fireplace with Ron tumbling out on her heels. Was it morning already? They’d been gone only a few hours and couldn’t possibly have got much sleep.

He left his hearing charm off to give them a few minutes of privacy, but he couldn’t help watching. Hermione gave Ron an absent-minded kiss and hurried to the table to pull several books from various stacks and flip through them with a determined set to her jaw. Ron paused at the door to stare at her with sadness and concern so profound it made Harry sit up and clutch his chest from the pain of it.

When finally, shoulders slumped and head hung, Ron turned to go to training, Harry shifted to study Hermione. Her pale, pinched face bore its trademark “this will not defeat me” research scowl, but she appeared frayed around the edges, her hair pulled back into a limp tail and her movements sluggish. After only ten days, she looked worse than at the end of her time-turner-fueled third year.

Harry hated what his friends were going through for him. The search for the grimoire had been useless, and the Unspeakable they’d brought in to consult on the matter even more so: “Mrs. Weasley, we can’t create a counter-curse until we know all the parameters of the original curse. It could take years to come up with the right combination of magics.” Harry thought Hermione and the Malfoys could probably do better on their own, anyway.

Or maybe they should just all give it up as a bad job. After all, _Purgatorio_ _Aeternam_ was meant to be eternal.

And it already felt like eternity; the last four days had been the longest. Now that Malfoy and his mother were helping with the search, and Hermione wasn’t badgering him with five thousand questions an hour, Harry had very little to do… except think. And think. And think. And none of his thoughts were good: What would happen if they never found a counter-curse? Would Summers really have to endure in this condition forever? How long before Harry went well and truly mad?

He almost didn’t need to ask the last question; madness was closing in fast, and fending it off had already become an exhausting chore. He was so _tired_ of searching for answers that didn’t exist, of watching his friends work themselves to death, of hoping that he’d ever have a real life again.

A burst of anger, mixed with frustration and despair, shot through him. Ron and Hermione had already dedicated nearly half their lives to keeping him alive. Hadn’t they more than earned the right to their freedom? But no, he’d bollocksed-up again, and they were once more caught up in the disaster masquerading as his life. They didn’t deserve this! What right did he have to entangle them in this mess? It just needed to be _over_ so everyone could get on with their lives.

In a fit of rage, Harry jerked off his amulet.

Hermione’s head whipped up, and she gave a plaintive cry as she looked at the chart that _used_ to display his physical condition—the lights were gone. As far as she was concerned, he had just winked out of existence. Without his hearing charm, he couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he could see the distress on her face. It broke his heart. Fumbling the cord back around his neck, he was relieved when the amulet came back to life with a tiny ping. He flicked on his hearing enhancement spell just in time to catch the scolding he deserved.

“Harry James Potter, don’t you _ever_ do that to me again! What were you thinking?”

Of course, the answer to that was far too complicated to spell out. But he was suddenly, acutely aware that they were eventually going to have to stop searching for a solution. A strange peace settled over him with the knowledge that, in the end, the decision would be his—Hermione would never willingly give up—and he needed to begin working on a plan for when all of their options had run out.

Now, though, he dragged himself to his feet and over to the letter board.

S O R R Y

She sagged into her chair as if all of her energy had been drained. “It’s okay,” Hermione said, sniffling a bit and swiping at her eyes. “I know you’re frustrated. But please, Harry, be patient. We’ll get there, and it won’t take years. I promise.”

Harry snorted.

Y O U C A N T P R O M I S E T H A T

She jutted out her chin. “I can and I will. You’ll see.”

Harry sighed. But before he could decide how to respond, Malfoy stepped gracefully from the Floo.

“Mother won’t be here today,” he announced with no preamble. “Before the press finds out she’s not quite as dead as previously reported, she has gone to reconcile with Aunt Andromeda.” He then sat in his usual chair and turned his attention to the book in front of him as if no one else was in the room.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Good morning, to you, too.”

Looking up from beneath his fringe, Malfoy nodded. That was probably as good as it was going to get; he was much snarkier when his mother wasn’t around. But with the unprecedented opportunity to observe Malfoy without being caught, Harry could see the snark for what it was: a front to hide fear and insecurity, much like his _Le Coeur Noir_ persona. He wondered if Malfoy ever showed his true self to anyone but his mother.

Silence fell as Hermione and Malfoy buried themselves in their research. Harry considered going to Ginny’s practice, but decided he couldn’t bear it after what he’d learned three nights ago when he stayed longer than usual to watch her sleep.

She’d bedded down in the sitting room with her two flat mates, as usual, but after a couple of restless hours, had finally given up and tiptoed into her room to curl into a chair and stare listlessly out the window until the sky lightened to murky grey. She cried only a little, but it was her look of absolute despair that gutted Harry. He’d gone back the next night and the next to watch her do the same. Apparently, during the day, she kept up a strong front and provided rock solid support to Val, but at night when she thought no one was around to see, she allowed herself to sink into the depression Harry knew must be a constant pull on her soul. He wanted to comfort her, to encourage her, but instead, he was the reason she seemed a mere shadow of herself.

As he sat next to Summers and thought about the effect his situation was having on Ginny, Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys and, hell, even the Malfoys, Harry began to realize exactly what he would eventually have to do. The thought twisted his gut, but he’d done it before and he knew with absolute certainty that he could and would do it again, when the time came. The only question was whether or not it was possible. He wasn’t sure it would even work under normal conditions, much less in this bizarre netherworld. Hermione could probably tell him, but he refused to upset her. That left only one other person to talk to—he’d just have to find a time to talk with Malfoy alone.

The rest of the day passed in near silence, broken only for brief periods when Hermione and Malfoy discussed—loudly—the merits of various theories and spells they came across. They asked Harry the occasional question, but he suspected it was mostly to make him feel useful rather than because they really needed his input.

Late in the afternoon, Hermione put her book down and stretched. Lips turned down and worry in her eyes, she stared for a long moment toward the space where Harry was sitting before drawing a deep breath, as if preparing herself for battle. Harry tensed. He was sure this was something he didn’t want to hear.

“Harry,” she said, taking a couple of steps closer and lowering her voice like she didn’t want Malfoy to hear. “I need to tell Ginny what’s going on.”

Harry jumped up and pounced onto the NO with both feet, wishing the word on the wall could relay his emphasis.

“Harry, please. She deserves to be told. I know the Minister and Robards don’t want it to get out, but I don’t think I can keep it from her much longer. I’ve already resorted to sending owls about our progress so I don’t let something slip, but she’s growing impatient and I just—”

NO NO NO Harry stomped to interrupt Hermione’s babbling. The last thing Ginny needed to know was that he was living in a hell that was worse than being on the wrong end of the Resurrection Stone—at least his loved ones had been able talk to him when they were summoned. No, once they reached the point of terminating the “search,” Ginny needed to believe he was dead so she could move on. He had to make Hermione understand that.

M A K E I T H A R D E R O N H E R

“Harry, please—”

“Leave it, Granger,” Malfoy said, still flipping through his book. “He’s right. What good would it do the Weas—erm, Ginny and her friend to know where they are? It’ll only make them worry more.”

Harry was shocked, if grateful. Who would’ve thought that Malfoy could consider someone else’s feelings... especially a Weasley?

Hermione narrowed her eyes and looked ready to rip into Malfoy, but just at that moment Ron rushed in, his arms filled with at least a dozen dusty, musty books. Harry could’ve kissed him for bringing the perfect distraction.

“I got to thinking today during S&T class,” Ron said, dropping the books on the table with a resounding thud. “We haven’t checked the library at” —he flicked a sidelong glance at Malfoy— “erm, Harry’s, so I went by and grabbed these.”

Hermione was already eagerly sorting the stack into three groups. “This is wonderful, Ron!”

“S&T?” Malfoy asked, grabbing a thin volume off the closest stack and studying the cover. “Snogging and Tossing? You’re married and you still have to take classes for that?” Surprisingly, he sounded almost teasing.

Without missing a beat, Ron snaked an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “At least when I practice, I don’t have to use a mirror and my hand.” He dipped her back for a kiss as Harry had seen him do countless times in their kitchen. This time, though, her protests were drowned out.

“No! Stop!” Malfoy shouted from behind his hands. “I concede. You win. Just don’t do anything that I’ll need to be Obliviated for!”

Ron laughed and gave Hermione a chaste kiss before releasing her. She smacked him on the chest with a disgusted “Boys!”

“Oi! Men. Well, one of us, anyway.” Ron laughed again and gestured toward the books. “These looked the most promising, but there’re loads more if they don’t have anything we can use.”

Malfoy snorted, holding out the small book opened to a page in the middle covered with tiny, faded handwriting. “You call this promising? It’s a joke! Are you sure the ginger twins didn’t slip this one in to make you look like a buffoon?”

Hermione froze and looked worriedly at Ron, but he just straightened, turned with slow deliberation toward Malfoy, and spoke very quietly. “That would be twin, Ferret. Singular. Fred was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Cheeks blazing, Malfoy ducked his head. “Right. Sorry. Forgot.”

With nothing more than a grim scowl, Ron turned back to Hermione. But she had her eyes on Malfoy’s book.

“Why do you think that one’s a joke?”

Malfoy looked up in surprise, but then smirked. “It’s supposedly necromantic spells and rituals, but this one calls for the use of the Resurrection Stone. It’s a faerie tale! What a load of bollocks.” He tossed the book in the bin at the end of the table

Ron’s head jerked up. Hermione gasped. Harry’s heart launched to his throat.

Malfoy pointed his wand at the bin. “ _Incendio_.”


	60. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes a hard decision... and Ginny decides to take action.

“NO!” Ron shouted.

But Hermione already had her wand out and the book zoomed from the bin just as Malfoy’s spell hit. She grabbed it from the air and started frantically searching through the small volume. Harry nearly collapsed in relief.

“Are you mad?” Malfoy jumped up from his chair. “The Resurrection Stone is a faery tale! A myth!”

Ron shook his head and smirked. “Didn’t you listen to _any_ thing Harry said during the final battle? By the way, where _is_ his Invisibility Cloak?”

Hermione finally found the right page, and Ron started reading over her shoulder. Harry supposed he should be doing the same, but Hermione would tell him all about it later. Besides, watching the emotions flit across Malfoy’s face as he put the pieces together was just too entertaining.

“Hang on.” Malfoy’s voice was breathless with wonder. “No. You can’t mean… it’s not possible…”

“Problem, Malfoy?” Hermione asked, her tone the epitome of innocence. Ron barely managed to stifle a grin.

Malfoy braced his hands on the table and leaned forward. He spoke precisely, as if daring them to confirm his words. “You’re telling me that the Deathly Hallows are real. And Potter has them. All three of them.”

“Actually, no.” Hermione used her prim teacher’s voice.

“Oh,” Malfoy breathed in relief. “For a minute there—”

“He doesn’t have them _anymore_ ,” Hermione finished. Malfoy sat down in his chair… hard. “Well, he still has one,” she continued. “Or, rather, you’re keeping it safe for him until he gets back, right?” Malfoy nodded, still looking gobsmacked. Hermione’s brow furrowed. “The other two are… hidden away.”

“That bloody prick!” Malfoy huffed. “He gets _every_ thing!” Then, as if a thought had just struck him, he sprang from his chair and slammed a hand on the table. “And he stole one of them from _me_!”

Harry couldn’t help laughing. Malfoy had obviously forgotten that he was standing right there listening.

Hermione ignored Malfoy’s continued rant and turned in Harry’s direction. “This ritual might have some potential, Harry. Do you think we can find the Stone?”

I N T H E C L E A R I N G W H E R E I M E T V O L

Ron held up his hands. “Stop! You don’t have to spell it out, mate. We get it. That’s near…” —he gulped, looking pale beneath his freckles— “Aragog’s place, isn’t it?”

Harry sighed and stepped over to YES.  He really didn’t want to ask Ron to go there, but he didn’t trust anyone else.

Shaking his head, Ron ran a hand over his face, but then threw back his shoulders with a determined look. “All right, I’ll go… but in the morning, when the sun’s up, yeah?”

Harry smiled. YES

W O N T B E A B L E T O S U M M O N I T

“Shite, that’s right. The Death Eaters couldn’t Summon the Cloak in Hogsmeade, so the Stone is probably the same,” Ron said with a grimace. “Merlin, it’s going to take forever to find it.”

A S K NARCISSA W H E R E I C A M E I N

Harry was glad they’d added the Malfoys to the list of names.

Ron nodded. “Good idea.”

“We can probably find a spell that will vanish the sticks and leaves so the Stone will be easier to find,” Hermione said.

Ron shuddered. “Can we find one that’ll work on spiders, too? Really BIG spiders?”

Harry chuckled. Ron knew the nest had been cleared by Voldemort during the final battle, but he looked as if he thought they would come back just to wait for him.

T A K E D A D S C L O A K

The relief on Ron’s face was comical. “Yeah. Right. Good idea.” He turned toward Malfoy, who’d been watching the conversation with a pout reminiscent of his first year at Hogwarts. But Harry missed that exchange because Hermione moved around the table to stand close to him.

“I said this _looks_ promising, Harry, but I need to do a bit of research and get some things ready. We’re going to try it soon, though… in the next couple of days, if I can manage it. But even if _this_ doesn’t work, we’ll find a way. Just, please, don’t give up hope. Promise me you won’t?”

Harry couldn’t promise. But he couldn’t say no to Hermione, either… at least not right now.

I L L T R Y

***

“Did you mean what you said?” Val asked Ginny as they left Healer Andrews’s office. “That we shouldn’t worry too much about not hearing anything yet?”

“Yes,” Ginny said, forcing confidence into her voice, then chose her words carefully so she didn’t set Val off again. “I think it means they’re working hard and just aren’t taking time to send word that nothing’s changed. I know Hermione will find us the minute she has some news.”

Val nodded, and Ginny gave a small sigh of relief. She’d begun to worry about Val. The weepy stage seemed to have passed, but she was obviously depressed and sinking fast, shutting out her friends and family, closing in on herself. Recognizing signs that hit far too close to home, Ginny had dragged Val along to her regular Monday session with the Healer. Val hadn’t said much during the discussion, but she seemed a little lighter, if still quiet. Ginny was determined not to let her sink into the abyss, no matter what.

Their footsteps echoed in the hallway, the only sound in the eerily silent building. She wasn’t usually here this late, and especially not on Mondays, but after their 260-680 loss to the Tornadoes on Saturday, Gwen had demanded the team be here at the crack of dawn, pushing Ginny’s appointment with the Healer to late in the day. As they neared the end of the corridor, Kelby levered herself up from where she’d been sitting on the floor waiting for them.

“I thought you’d gone,” Ginny said.

With a worried glance at Val, Kelby fell into step and shook her head. “I decided to stay and warn you that you’ve got a crowd waiting.”

Ginny came to an abrupt halt at the building exit; Val and Kelby stopped just behind her. Beyond the gate, under several bobbing light orbs fending off the deepening twilight, stood more than a dozen reporters, cameras and quills at the ready. Ginny readily recognized Jasper Jinks’s massive bulk, and thought she could make out familiar faces from _Witch Weekly_ , _Quidditch Quarterly_ , the Wizarding Wireless Network, and a number of media outlets on the Continent. The property wards kept them all about six feet from the gate, but they had the opening completely blocked. Ginny, Val, and Kelby would have to pass through the crowd to reach the point where they could Disapparate.

Ginny’s heart sank. They should’ve expected this.

She’d been relieved when Gwenog had excused them from Press Day, even if the official statement about their absence made it sound like they were being disciplined: “Weasley and Morgan will remain on the second reserve team until further notice. The Harpies’ management will make no further comment on personnel issues.”

Of course, that had only fueled the fervor for an interview. Ginny had to wonder if Gwen had done it that way to punish them; Merlin only knew what she might have said to the press if she’d made the announcement _after_ they’d been blown away by the Tornadoes. When the match was over, Ginny and Val hadn’t even bothered to change out of their uniforms to sneak away before the rest of the team could get off the pitch.

Ginny supposed the press had been trying to find them since, but except for Flooing to their parents’ homes for Sunday visits and Apparating before dawn—earlier than the rest of the team—to the pitch for practice, they’d barely set foot out of Ginny’s flat in the past week. After their girls’ night on New Year’s Eve, they’d realized they felt better in the memory-free, family-free zone, and had just stayed. Ginny got Bill to help her adjust the wards so only the three of them could Apparate and Floo directly in and out, and only family could call (but not come) through the fireplace.

Thus, they’d avoided this kind of scene. Until now.

She heard Val’s breath hitch. Ginny ground her teeth. “Let’s go back and see if we can use Healer Andrews’s Floo.” She wasn’t even sure why they hadn’t left that way to begin with—that’s the way she usually went home. But everything seemed off kilter these days. Why should this be any different?

The trip back to the office took only a couple of minutes, but they were too late. Healers Andrews was gone, and the office was locked tight. Ginny thought about breaking in, but the Floo had probably been sealed as well, and Ginny just couldn’t abuse her Healer’s trust like that.

They returned to the exit and stood in the shadows watching the vultures flap about. Val blanched and gave a tiny whimper; she looked ready to collapse.

A memory flashed through Ginny’s mind: jostling reporters; the cobblestones of Hogsmeade hard beneath her hands and knees; thunderous, flashing chaos overhead; curling into a ball, _knowing_ she was going to die.

She shuddered with fresh terror at the flashback, but would be damned if she were going to go through that kind of horror again.  And she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Val suffer it.

“Could we get away with glamours?” Kelby asked.

“No.” Ginny made her decision and drew her wand. “We’re not going to let those bloody vultures control our lives. Shrink your bags so you’ll have both hands free. Kelby, you hang onto Val and stay behind me. Get her past the wards and out of here quick as you can while I distract them.”

Val’s face had gone ghost-white and she trembled visibly. Ginny put a gentle hand on her chin and turned her face up. “Listen to me.” Val opened her eyes, biting her lip and drawing a soggy breath. “Hang on to Kelby with both hands. Keep your head down and concentrate only on staying on your feet until you get beyond the wards. Don’t listen to anything they say and _don’t_ let them separate you, no matter what. Do you understand?” Val gave a hesitant, shaky nod, Ginny could see a flash of hope in her eyes. “Good. Go straight to the flat. I’ll keep them busy until you’re gone. If I’m not there in ten minutes, just…" She searched her mind for the right person. "...let George know.”

Kelby nodded, drawing her wand, taking care of their bags, and twining her arm through Val’s to grab her wrist. Val used her other hand to catch Kelby’s arm in a death grip. Holding her head high, Ginny led the way, walking slowly enough that Kelby and Val could follow without stumbling. Long before they were close, the shouting began.

“Ginny, what’s going on? Why are you benched?”

“Are they going to sack you?”

“Were you caught in negotiations with another team?”

“Are you pregnant?”

Val gave a small cry at this last. Ginny held out an arm to stop her and Kelby just inside the gate.

 _BANG!_ Red sparks showered the crowd.

“Enough!” Ginny said into the startled silence as she lowered her wand to point it at the nearest set of eyes. “Back off. Let us pass, and I’ll give you your bloody statement.”

Holding her wand steady and reaching back for Val’s sleeve, Ginny eased the three of them out of the gate. The reporters parted, but just barely, moving to fill in the gaps like water flowing around them. Ginny growled; this wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t taking any chances on someone grabbing hold for a Side-Along ride. Never taking her eyes from the crowd, she stepped close to murmur in Kelby’s ear. “Watch my fingers. On three.” She took a step away and held one finger by her thigh. When the third finger went out, she blasted the ground in front of her and whirled do it again behind. The reporters scattered.

When the dust settled, she breathed a sigh of relief. Kelby and Val were safely away. The shouting began again, even louder.

“Why does Val look so ill?”

“Is she preggers?”

“Is she abusing potions?”

“Why are you benched with her?”

“Are you lovers? Did you get caught?”

Ginny rolled her eyes at this last. Sure, the team might have a rule about no liaisons between players, but nobody had enforced it in decades. She raised her wand and shot sparks again.

“Quiet! I can’t give you a statement if you’re shouting.” She waited until they subsided, eyes wide, quills poised. Oh, bugger! She hadn’t really thought this through. First, she needed to deflect their interest in Val. “Leave Val alone. She’s dealing with a family crisis right now and doesn’t need you lot nosing in. Gwen was kind enough to put her in reserves until it could be resolved.”

“What about you, Ginny? Why did you get benched?” That was Jinks. Ginny really wished she could slap the smarmy bastard.

Instead, she gave him a glare to hide the fact that she was thinking fast. She couldn’t use the same excuse—it would sound too suspicious. But she couldn’t tell them the whole truth either. Taking a tiny step back, she eased out of Jinks’s reach and lifted her chin. “I got benched because I was late reporting to training without a reasonable excuse.” Then she said the one thing she _knew_ would throw them off Val’s trail. “Because I spent the night with Harry.”

Chaos erupted. She Disapparated.

***

The next morning, Ginny winced at the _Prophet_ ’s headline: **_Weasley Benched for Banging Savior_**. The main picture, huge and above the fold, was the one from a year ago that had been magically composed from two different ones showing her, Harry, Henry, and Sally on a bench at the children’s home. At the bottom of the page was a smaller picture of her, wand drawn, with Val and Kelby edging out of the gates. In the story, Jinks expounded on every theory and scenario he could dream up based on nothing more than speculation and his imagination, but with just enough truth thrown in to make it all sound reasonable.

“Well, it could’ve been worse,” she muttered.

“Ginny, why?”

Ginny looked up to meet Val’s wide eyes and shrugged. “It got them off your back.” The story didn’t mention Val, except for two lines at the very end.

“But what will Harry say? Won’t he be angry?”

Ginny looked back at the picture of the two of them smiling and talking to the children, and the answer became startlingly obvious. “No. No, he won’t be angry. He would’ve done the same thing.”

The truth of her own words filled her with wonder. She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts crowding in. During that horrible year under Snape and the Carrows, s _he’d_ done it over and over—stepped in front of a hex to keep someone else from suffering… much like she’d done for Val yesterday. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

For the first time, she fully understood Harry.

He didn’t take time to debate saving someone, he just _did_ it… and thought about the consequences to himself later. His “saving people thing” was more than a hero complex. He didn’t do it for glory or attention. He did it because he cared… because he loved.

That was why she loved him… and would never want to change him.

She ran her fingers over his inky image with a sad smile. “He’d have done the same thing,” she murmured, more to herself than to Val. _Please come back_ , she thought. _Please come back so I can tell you how much I love you for being exactly who you are_.

***

“Granger, you’ve researched this to death! It’s been a _week_. Just go ahead and _do_ the bloody ritual!”

“We can’t just go ahead and _do_ it, Malfoy. We can’t even _read_ parts of it or properly make out all of the runes. And we haven’t found any account of it ever being _used_ , so it’s probably only theory and could very likely destroy the Stone. That means we might have _one_ shot— _ONE_! We can’t take any chances that something will go wrong.”

Harry rolled his eyes. They had been at it for nearly half an hour, and as much as he loved Hermione and respected her penchant for caution, he agreed with Malfoy. All of their planning rarely worked out anyway.

“If you’re so worried about the effin’ Stone, why not just do the other ritual first? If it works, you’ll be able to keep your precious Hallow.”

“I will _not_ sacrifice a unicorn on the off chance that that ridiculous, half-arsed bit of wishful thinking calling itself a ritual _might_ work. And I’m not concerned about the _Stone_. I’m concerned about _Harry_ and _Scott_. If we mess this up, we won’t have another chance, and we don’t know how it will affect them, especially given Scott’s condition.”

“You think I’m _not_ worried about them? Potter’s saved my life more times than I can count. You really think I’d deliberately put him in danger?”

“Might I make a suggestion?” Narcissa Malfoy stepped serenely into the narrow space between Hermione’s and Malfoy’s noses. “A compromise, perhaps. Mrs. Weasley, you come with me to peruse the family library at the Manor for additional information that might have some bearing on this situation. However, if you find nothing, we proceed with the ritual tomorrow evening.”

Hermione took a step back and blinked, obviously torn between standing her ground and jumping at the opportunity to explore a blood-warded library she would never otherwise have access to. “But am I allowed?” she finally blurted. “I mean with the… I’m not even pureblood, much less a Malfoy.”

Narcissa smiled. “You will be with me. The wards will allow you in, although you must let me take from the shelves anything you wish to examine.”

Looking like a starving lioness given a choice between devouring a fresh kill and protecting her young, Hermione glanced in Harry’s direction. He jumped.

YES D O I T

After several hesitant moments, and still looking less than happy, she reluctantly followed Narcissa through the Floo.

“ _Merlin_ , how do you stand her?” Malfoy exploded when they were gone.

S H E M E A N S W E L L

Malfoy flopped back into his chair. “Maybe so, but she’s driving me mental.”

Y O U R E A L R E A D Y M E N T A L

“Stuff it, Potter.” Malfoy shook his head. “This is so weird, talking to you this way.”

T E L L M E A B O U T I T D O Y O U H A V E Y O U R C O I N

Plunging his hand into his pocket, Malfoy produced his charmed Galleon.

 _Good. Easier this way,_ Harry charmed onto his coin. It also meant no one who came in unexpectedly could see what they were discussing.

“Yeah it is,” Malfoy said out loud. “It’s more like you’re _really_ not here.”

Harry snorted as he sent his next message. _Need to ask you something._

“So ask.”

_It’s a secret. Can’t tell anyone._

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. “What? You mean you actually keep secrets from your mates? I guess all is _not_ well within the inner circle, especially if I’m the one you’re choosing to confide in. Go on, then. I’m all ears… erm, eyes.”

Scowling at Malfoy’s almost-insult, Harry held his breath for a moment. He’d been thinking about this for days, but putting it out there for someone else made it seem… real. And he wasn’t entirely certain he could trust Malfoy with _this_ knowledge, but he needed to know, and he could never ask Hermione.

_Is it possible to AK yourself?_

Malfoy’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. “You’re not… no, you… you’re having me on, right?”

Letting Malfoy collect himself, Harry waited a moment before asking again. _Is it possible?_

“ _Yes_ , it’s possible.” Malfoy seemed startled that he’d actually said that, but he grunted a humorless laugh and continued. “That was one of Dolohov’s favorite ways to test someone he needed to send into a situation where they might be subjected to _Imperio_. We lost quite a few good henchmen that way. You’d think the bastard would realize he was depleting his most loyal troops. I suppose I’m lucky he never tested his deputies.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew his contingency plan _might_ work. Although in this purgatory nothing was certain.

Malfoy sat forward, leaning his arms on the table and staring hard at the space next to the letter board, unaware that Harry had moved across the room. “But you’re not… you wouldn’t…”

_Only as a last resort._

Harry waited for Malfoy to read that message before adding,

_Can’t live like this forever._

_Can’t leave Summers in agony forever._

Malfoy looked even paler than usual, and he sounded shaken to his core. “You mean you’d actually… you’d _do_ that… off your friend and then yourself if this ritual doesn’t work?”

That reaction surprised Harry. He’d asked Malfoy instead of Hermione because Malfoy would sneer and throw an insult, not take it personally.

_Maybe not right away._

_Might not work anyway._

“But why? Why would you even _think_ of doing that?”

_Why wouldn’t I?_

_Everyone needs to move on._

Malfoy shoved himself to his feet, suddenly furious. “Oh, so that’s it. Noble Potter, sacrificing himself again for the _greater good_.” His sneer left no doubt that he thought it was anything _but_ good. “Only this time, you’d be taking someone down with you. Defeating the Dark Lord makes you a god, now, does it? Gives you the power over life and death? Doesn’t Summers get a _choice_? How do you think he—or his _wife_ —might feel about that? Or maybe you’re just scared. Maybe you used up all that vaunted Gryffindor courage and now you’re just looking for the easy way out.”

Harry was too stunned to come up with a quick reply. But that didn’t stop Malfoy.

“And how do you think the Weasel and the Mu—Granger are going to feel? They’ve given up their whole lives to follow you, and now you’re just going to thumb your nose and walk away? You really are an arrogant, self-serving prick, aren’t you?”

Harry’s anger kicked in, along with desperate frustration that he couldn’t punch Malfoy in the nose.

_They’re the reason I’d do it!_

Malfoy glanced at his coin and scoffed. “Oh, and I suppose you’d be doing it for the Weaslette’s sake as well? Freeing her to move on, find someone else, all that rot? SHE LOVES YOU, YOU BLOODY PRICK! They ALL love you! Don’t you know what it means to have that? Friends, family, a lover? How can you just throw that all away without giving _them_ the chance to save _you_?”

_I’m not doing it today!_

“No, but you’re going to give them only _one_ chance? I always knew you were an idiot, Potter, but this really snags the Snitch.”

Chest heaving with impotent rage, Harry stared at Malfoy, wishing he could hex him to hell and back. But after a moment, an unnatural calm swept over him. He’d got what he wanted. What did he care what Malfoy thought? The important thing was his silence.

_You promised you won’t tell._

Malfoy stared at the coin a moment, then looked up, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t remember making such a promise.”

_Promise now. It’ll only upset them._

_That’s the reason I asked you instead of Hermione._

Closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over them, Malfoy sighed. “You’re a right bastard, you know that? Yeah, I’ll keep quiet. On one condition.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t going to like this.

_What?_

“You give Granger as much time as she needs to try and reverse this curse—until _she’s_ ready to give up.”  

Malfoy was either completely sincere or the best actor Harry had ever seen. This newfound concern was as puzzling as it was… touching? Harry laughed out loud—he never thought he’d use that word about Malfoy. Of course, they’d been through a lot together since their school years—they’d pulled each other’s arses out of the literal and figurative fire several times, in spite of not really _liking_ one another—but Malfoy was no doubt still looking out for his own arse… and maybe his mother’s.

And he was insane if he thought Hermione would ever give up. But the fact that it was _Malfoy_ defending his friends and family—especially Ron and Hermione—was just too hard to ignore. Maybe one chance wasn’t enough. Of course, Harry knew no one could stop him if he decided to go ahead with his plan, but what did it matter if he did it this week or a year from now? Besides, Malfoy’s “one condition” felt almost like a dare, and when had Harry ever walked away from one of those? Yeah, he could accept the challenge, especially if it would insure Malfoy’s silence.

_Fine. I’ll give her more time, but you never, ever tell ANYONE about this._

Malfoy slumped back into his chair. “Done.”

Was that relief on his face? It was gone so quickly, Harry would never be sure. But one thing he did know—he _might_ now have a way out, if all else failed.

***

Ignoring the gawking stares following her, Ginny strode through the halls of St. Mungo’s as quickly as she could without running. She wouldn’t normally parade in public in her uniform like this, but Gwen had refused to let her leave the match early and the rest of the family would already be here.

Pushing open the door, she saw them gathered at the far end of the six-bed ward. As she tiptoed past a sleeping woman and two smaller gaping family groups, the crowd of redheads shifted. She could see Fleur, exhausted but glowing (looking nothing like the banshee from Tuesday’s Howler), holding court with a wide-eyed, thumb-sucking Victoire cradled at her side.

“Gin! You made it!” Bill was beaming next to Ron, who was cooing at the bundle in Hermione’s arms.

Ron and Hermione… Ginny’s stomach went into freefall. She hadn’t seen them in more than a week and the last owl she’d got was two days ago. Her brain had only a second to register the significance of their presence before Bill had scooped up the bundle of blankets and, with a proud smile, laid it gently in her arms.

“Meet your new niece, Dominique.”

Two bright blue eyes gazed curiously over cherubic cheeks, and rosebud lips puckered as if to grant a kiss. Ginny ran gentle fingers through the strawberry blonde fuzz atop the slightly misshapen head. She was beautiful, a miniature replica of her sister, the best of both her parents.

Emotions exploded in Ginny’s chest. What would it be like to hold a tiny new life from her own body… a baby with Harry’s eyes? Or would green and brown combine to make hazel? Would his dark hair cancel out her Weasley red? Would he rather have a boy or a girl? The emotions swirled into a heavy knot, making it hard to breathe. If she hadn’t taken precautions, she could be carrying a bit of Harry right now. What if she’d missed her chance? What if he…

Eyes burning, she knew she had to get out. Now!

She shoved the baby into the nearest set of arms and fled, running through the halls until she found a shadowed corner away from the hustle and bustle. Leaning against the wall, she slid to the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and buried her face in them. Two sets of footsteps pounded around the corner, then stopped and moved cautiously forward. Someone sank to the floor beside her and slipped an arm across her shoulders, but the silence held while she drew ragged breaths, gasping for control. She couldn’t lose it now. If she did, they might as well take her to the other end of this floor and give her the bed next to Gilderoy Lockhart’s.

After a few moments, with her emotions barely leashed, she raised her head to find Hermione’s worried eyes just inches from her own. Ron stood a couple of feet away looking equally concerned. The fact that they weren’t talking told her everything she needed to know. Her demons grew frantic with delight.

“I’m never going to see him again, am I?” Ginny whispered.

“Oh, Ginny, no, you can’t believe that.” Hermione glanced at Ron, but kept talking to Ginny. “You have to hang on. He’s alive and—”

“How do you know? How do you know he’s alive? Have you heard from him? Is he hurt? Is Scott okay? Why haven’t you brought them back?” Each question came out faster and louder than the one before as Ginny’s heart raced.

Hermione sent a desperate look at Ron. This time he pressed his lips together and shook his head a fraction. Hermione frowned and scanned the shadows, as if she expected someone to jump out of them, then turned back to Ginny. “He’s… they’re still wearing the tracking amulets. And we… we have a lead. A good one. We’re going to… we’re working on a plan—”

“ _Working_ on a plan?” Ginny’s fury flared. “You don’t have a plan yet? Hermione, it’s been nearly three bloody weeks! You don’t know any more than you did before, do you?”

“We do! We…” Hermione’s eyes met Ron’s; he shook his head more obviously this time, but she glared defiantly at him and then into the shadows. She straightened a bit and opened her mouth.

“We can’t tell you anything yet,” Ron blurted, cutting her off. “The mission is still under the Secrecy Charm.”

Ginny dropped her head to her knees again. They were hiding something, but what? Maybe they didn’t really know anything. Why else would they lie? Unless, he was… _No!_ Ginny’s brain rejected the thought, but it came anyway: Harry was truly gone; they were just delaying the bad news. Everything in her revolted at the very idea, and she struggled to regain her equilibrium. Drawing strength from Hermione’s tight hug, Ginny shut down her demons before they could take over completely.

“You know I’d tell you, if I could,” Hermione murmured. “But please… _please_ don’t give up hope.”

With an inelegant snort, Ginny raised her head. “What do you think is keeping me this close to sane? If I give up hope, I’ll go _completely_ mad. But I don’t think I can hang on much longer. Please, just go and find him before I lose it altogether.”

***

“Ready, Harry?”

Harry finished applying the final layer of protective spells over Summers before tapping his coin.

_Ready._

Hermione had relocated their base of operations to an empty chamber in the bowels of the Ministry vacated by the Department of Mysteries years ago. The huge space allowed plenty of room to conduct the ritual under protective wards without having to worry about rearranging or destroying the office. Now, she, Ron, and Malfoy stood at equidistant points on the outside of a carefully drawn rune circle with the Resurrection Stone hovering at the precise center overhead, directly above where Harry had laid Summers. Narcissa waited in a far corner, ready to transport Summers to St. Mungo’s and send help if anyone else was injured.

“Everyone else ready?” At Hermione’s question, Ron and Malfoy nodded and raised their wands. Harry wished he could be as confident as they looked. Hermione swished her wand to dim the torches, then pointed it toward the Resurrection Stone. “Begin!”

Like a lightning storm, the magic exploded, crackling and flashing in blinding fury. Harry crouched low over Summers, shielding him as a glittering dome descended like a cage from the Stone, closing in steadily until Harry was sure it would fry them into crisps. Time seemed to slow, seconds stretching to hours, then all of a sudden, it was over.

Lifting his head slowly, afraid of what he might find, Harry peered into darkness so complete he had to blink to be sure his eyes were open. Silence roared in his ears and amplified the pounding of his heart.

_Plink!_

The tiny noise echoed through the cavernous chamber. Four lights bloomed—wands illuminating worried faces. Harry drew what felt like his first breath in five minutes. Everyone appeared to be okay.

The torches flared… revealing the fog, thick as ever. His heart sank. He’d tried not to get his hopes up, but somehow they’d got away from him.

“It didn’t work.” Disappointment laced Hermione’s voice, but her eyes were full of fear. “Harry? Are you there? Are you all right?”

Wearily, he tapped his wand to his Galleon. Malfoy glanced down at his own coin and didn’t bother to hide the relief in his voice. “He says they’re fine.”

Hermione blew out a shuddering breath and dropped her head into her hands. “I can’t think what went wrong.”

“I told you the runes weren’t right,” Malfoy said, but the words held no heat. He seemed just as let down as the rest of them.

An inappropriate giggle bubbled up Harry’s throat. Under different circumstances, the scene would be hilarious—Hermione had come back from the hospital determined to conduct the ritual immediately, while Malfoy had done everything in his power to convince her that they needed to wait a few days and do more research first.

As Malfoy and Hermione quietly—a sure sign they were both shaken—debated the possible flaws in the ritual, Ron walked to the center of the circle and bent over to plunge his hand through Summers’s stomach. Harry had to turn his head. He knew Summers wouldn’t feel anything, but it was still unsettling.

“Stone looks all right,” Ron announced, holding the cracked, black gem up between his thumb and forefinger.

“How can you tell?” Malfoy asked. “Shouldn’t we… I don’t know… test it? Or something?”

“No!” Ron and Hermione spoke in unison with absolute conviction.

“But—”

“No, Malfoy.” Ron folded the Stone into his huge fist and went to stand next to Hermione. “It’s Harry’s, and he meant for it never to be used again to summon the dead.”

As Malfoy began to present his case, Harry’s heart swelled with pride for his friends’ staunch loyalty, even as he felt a pang of longing to see his parents again. Of course, the way things were going, he might see them sooner than he’d planned. Not today, though. He’d given his word, and this was only the first attempt. But he couldn’t help wondering whom Malfoy might want to summon. Vincent Crabbe, maybe? Surely not his Aunt Bellatrix. No, more likely Snape. That thought gave Harry pause, making him wonder if the Potions Master might have some advice for them. But then, they could always talk with his portrait. Maybe he should suggest…

“Leave it, Draco.” Narcissa’s gentle words cut off Malfoy’s rising rant. She put a hand on his shoulder and led him to the “research corner” for a hushed conversation.

When Harry turned his attention from the Malfoys back to the circle, Hermione was staring in his direction. When she took a couple of steps closer, he tensed, knowing what was coming. Trying to ignore her, he knelt and tucked Summers’s cloak around him before releasing the Body Bind and recasting the Stasis Charm.

“Harry.” Her voice was cajoling.

Standing, he strode to the letter board, wishing yet again that he’d asked for punctuation—he needed several exclamation points.

NO

She saw the word flash on the wall and scurried in his direction with Ron on her heels. “Harry, how can you say that? You saw her. I know you were there. You heard what she said. We need to tell her.”

Yes, he had seen and heard, and it had only strengthened his resolve. Ginny couldn’t know where he was or what had happened.

T E L L H E R A N D I W I L L L E A V E

“Leave? What do you mean leave?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione was smarter than that.

T A K E O F F T H E A M U L E T S A N D G O A W A Y

He felt a stab of guilt at the way her face paled, but he knew it was probably going to happen in the end, anyway. Best start preparing her now. Besides, Hermione would eventually have to convince Ginny that, with the amulet’s readings, a body wasn’t needed as proof.

B E T T E R F O R H E R T O T H I N K I M D E A D

Hermione gave a cry of distress and turned to bury her face in Ron’s chest. His auburn brows drew together over her head. “That's harsh, mate.”

S H E N E E D S T O M O V E O N

Hermione peeked over her shoulder at what he’d written, then turned to glare in his direction. “But if we don’t tell, you’ll stay until we find a way to bring you back?”

He didn’t want to make any promises he couldn’t—wouldn’t—keep. Besides, the Malfoys were following the conversation now.

F O R A W H I L E

The Galleon in his hand grew warm.

_Remember your promise._

Harry sighed. None of them were going to make this easier. He tapped his coin.

_Might need you to Obliviate them when the time comes._

Malfoy’s face turned a furious Gryffindor red. “The hell I will!” He stormed from the room muttering a litany of profanity and slamming the door behind him. Narcissa gave Ron and Hermione an apologetic look and hurried after him.

 _Wuss. We’ll talk later,_ Harry tapped onto his coin with a grim smile. He wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or happy that he was getting used to the idea of what he might eventually have to do.

Ron blinked. “Blimey! What did you say to him, Harry?”

H E S J U S T B E I N G M A L F O Y

Ron and Hermione frowned at each other, but Harry didn’t need them asking questions.

W H A T S N E X T

Scowl deepening, Hermione drew a heavy breath and let it back out with a huff. “I suppose we go back to the drawing board.” She set her shoulders and moved to the table to find quill and parchment. “I need to ask you some questions first.”

Harry ran his fingers under his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

***

Ginny pulled the quilt more tightly around her and stared blindly out the window, oblivious to the comings and goings on the frozen street below.

Val and Kelby were gone. After the confrontation with the press at the gate, Val had taken a leave of absence from the team and moved back home with her parents. She’d said everything—including Ginny—reminded her too much of Scott. Ginny could understand that, but she hoped Val was still seeing Healer Andrews to try and ward off the depression. But Kelby would have to check on that; Val wasn’t answering Ginny’s owls any more.

Kelby had offered to stay, but Ginny had sent her home, too. No point in all of them waiting their lives away.

Even so, Val’s decision had affected Ginny more deeply than she’d let on. With nowhere to focus outside of herself, Ginny’s demons had set up housekeeping in her head and invited all their friends over to party. Finally having a Monday off wasn’t helping, either. She’d come straight home from her session with Healer Andrews and curled up in her sitting room chair with no plan to move in the near future. The afternoon stretched ahead. She should at least make herself go and visit the children, if not find a whole list of things to take her out of the flat.  But she just didn’t have it in her. Keeping up a brave front for everyone else’s sake was hard work.

More than a week had passed since Ginny had seen Hermione—she and Ron hadn’t bothered to show up for lunch at the Burrow yesterday—and the last progress report on their search had come on Wednesday by owl, rather than a Floo-call.

For the millionth time, Ginny let the memory of their conversation at St. Mungo’s play slowly through her mind. She’d been so upset at the time, she hadn’t paid enough attention, but later, in the still of the night, she could see everything more clearly. Ron had said they were still under the Secrecy Charm, but Ginny was certain Hermione had been on the verge of telling something… something she wasn’t supposed to tell.

Of course, they hadn’t shown their faces since, the cowards. Ginny needed only a few minutes with Hermione to get at whatever they were hiding. Hermione _wanted_ to tell; Ginny just knew it. But something was holding her back.

With a growl, Ginny pounded her head against the back of the chair. The waiting was hardest. Going for days and days with no word, hoping it meant only that nothing terrible had happened yet. But it went against her grain. She needed to _do_ something… needed to _know_ what was going on.

Maybe she should send Hermione an owl… ?  No, that would make it too easy to avoid the truth. But Ginny couldn’t bear to wait another whole week and _hope_ that they’d show up at the Burrow. Their appearances had become increasingly less likely as the weeks passed. Harry would _never_ sit back and wait like this.

Without making a conscious decision, Ginny found herself gathering her winter cloak and Disapparating. It was only when she opened her eyes and saw the red telephone box that she fully realized what she intended to do. With fresh determination, she lifted her chin and stepped inside to press the buttons—62242. Inside, she gave her name, had her wand checked, and made her way to the Auror Division, daring anyone to try and stop her.

Stepping into the hallway on Level 2 she gave the receptionist a warm smile. “Hi…” —she peered at the woman’s name tag— “Ramona. I’m Ginny Weas—”

The squeal that cut her off was ear piercing. “Ginny Weasley! Oh, my stars! It’s really you!” Ramona bounced in her seat. “Please, can I have your autograph? I’m your biggest fan! I’ve _so_ missed you playing. Will you be off the reserves soon? I can’t wait to watch you fly again. You’re like magic in motion.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Ginny quickly signed an ancient copy of _Quidditch Quarterly_ and the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_ so Ramona would settle enough to give directions. But when she finally asked for Hermione, the answer came as a shock.

“Oh!” Ramona looked back and forth like she was checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned across the counter and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m only supposed to say that she’s not in, but you being her friend and all… Mrs. Weasley isn’t on this floor anymore. She’s working down in the Department of Mysteries now.” Ginny blinked—Hermione hadn’t said anything about a transfer. But before she could ask about it, the woman continued. “Well, not really _in_ the Department of Mysteries, you know. She’s down the hall, I believe. At least, I’ve been instructed to forward her mail to Room 9, Level 9—easy to remember, yeah?”

Ginny leaned in with an encouraging smile and said in an undertone, “You’re _so_ clever!”

The woman puffed with pride, then added, “No one is allowed to visit her down there. Top-secret project, you know. But I’d be happy to send a message for her to meet you in the canteen, if you’d like.”

Ginny gave an airy wave. “No, no need to bother her. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d say hello. You’ll let her know I was here, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes. _Anything_ for you, Ginny.”

Well, at least fame was useful for something.

After stepping into the lift, Ginny gave Ramona a friendly wave and a last smile that disappeared the instant the doors closed, then pressed the button for Level 9. She’d be damned if she were going to be turned away that easily… especially now that things looked more suspicious than ever.

When the lift doors opened, Ginny peeked out to find the hallway deserted. The plain black door at the end of it brought back that frightful night of her fourth year, but she shoved away the memories. She had more important things to do right now.

Scanning the area, she saw a corridor leading off to the right that she hadn’t noticed when she was here before. Of course, she hadn’t been looking for it then, but now she walked cautiously down the long narrow passage lined with closed doors. Keeping her step light, she moved slowly, senses tuned to pick up any wards. She was surprised when she got to the end of the hall without tripping an alarm… and that the door marked #9 opened with only an _Alohamora_. 

Quietly pushing it open a crack, she held her breath and listened. Hermione’s voice echoed from the far end of the room. Another voice—male and vaguely familiar—answered, but Ginny couldn’t make out any of their words. She debated for a moment. If she just charged in, they might scramble for a cover story and usher her back upstairs before she learned anything. But if she could sneak closer, Hermione might be angry—and in trouble—but maybe Ginny could finally find out what was going on.

Her internal debate was short. She peered through the narrow opening, turning her head one way and then the other, trying to scope out the lay of the room. It was huge, every bit as big as the Great Hall at Hogwarts, if more square. Halfway down the left wall, a fireplace crackled merrily, while evenly-spaced torches flickered all around the room in deep, floor-to-ceiling alcoves. The ones near the back gave off much more light, as if magically enhanced, which made sense, since that’s where the only furniture and occupants seemed to be.

Facing the fire, Hermione sat at a massive wooden table, scribbling madly on a parchment perched precariously atop a short stack of open books. What seemed to be hundreds more books created a barrier that hid whomever she was talking to seated at her right—Ginny could see his feet beneath the table, but nothing else that pointed to his identity. The rest of the room appeared to be completely empty.

Time to move.

With one more quick scan of the area, Ginny pushed the door open just far enough to squeeze through and shut it with the tiniest of clicks. Keeping to the shadows, she edged around the right side of the room, concentrating on keeping every movement silent as she made for the last torch alcove before the brighter lights. Once she’d settled into the slim opening (good thing she was petite), she allowed herself the tiniest of breaths before peeking around the corner—then nearly gave herself away by a squeak of surprise.

 _Draco Malfoy?_ What the hell was he doing here? And why was Hermione talking to him like he was… well, not a friend, exactly, but maybe a colleague?

And then Hermione did something completely inexplicable: she turned and asked a question to the empty space over a chart of letters and names on the floor. Ginny’s eyes grew wide and her jaw fell when an answer appeared on the wall next to the chart. She hadn’t been paying close enough attention to catch the question, but the response made no sense with the letters all run together. Ginny snapped her mouth shut and forced herself to listen more carefully.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “That’ll never work.”

Ginny frowned. Potter? Why would he say that when Harry obviously wasn’t in the room?

“I’m afraid he’s right, Harry. We already had to rule that out because…”

Ginny stopped listening as the pieces fell together. Harry was here. For some reason, she couldn’t see him, but he was _here_. Not missing. _Here_. She gasped for air, her lungs suddenly refusing to work.

Hermione whirled. The blood drained from her face. “Ginny! What are you doing here?” She sounded terrified.

And she bloody well should be. In an instant, Ginny’s surprise morphed into fury. Wand drawn, she stepped into the light. “Hermione Granger Weasley, you’d better start explaining right now!”


	61. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry knows the end is near, but Ginny refuses to let him get away with anything.

“Hermione Granger Weasley, you’d better start explaining right now!”

At the sight of Ginny, Harry froze—except for his heart, which was trying to hammer its way out of his chest.

Hermione spun, reaching out to him with upturned palms, panic in her eyes. “I didn’t tell her. I swear, Harry, I never said a word. Please… don’t do anything rash. We need to talk about this.”

Before she’d finished, Malfoy jumped from his chair, shouting, “Potter, you promised!”

Ginny watched them both with wild eyes, then turned toward him, her voice a whisper of hope. “Harry? Are you there?”

Harry wished for something to punch. She wasn’t supposed to find out, especially not like this. He should snatch off his amulet and disappear just like he’d sworn—but she looked so… lost, he just couldn’t bring himself to follow through.

Hermione glanced nervously at Ginny, then back toward him. “Harry? You’re not leaving, are you?”

Reluctantly—very reluctantly—he stepped over to NO.

Ginny gave a gasp that was close to a sob as she stared at the word on the wall. “He’s alive? He’s really alive?” The words were barely a whisper, but then, her face suddenly suffused with vivid fury, she whirled to face Hermione. “What the _hell_ is going on? Why didn’t you _tell_ me? How could you let me think—” She cut herself off and closed her eyes for a moment, drawing several deep breaths before drilling Hermione with a stare that threatened to maim. “Explain.”

Hermione sagged into her chair and weakly gestured Ginny toward the empty seat across the table from where Malfoy still stood. “Sit. This could take a while.” Flicking her wand a couple of times, Hermione transferred most of the books to the towering bookshelf next to the table. 

Casting suspicious glances between Hermione, Malfoy, and the place Harry was standing, Ginny eased into the chair, then pierced Hermione with a glare. “You’d better have a really good reason for not telling me.”

Heaving a sigh, Hermione opened her mouth… then shut it. She opened it again, then gave a humorless laugh. “I guess I do have a good reason. I can’t. The Secrecy Charm is still in place.” She turned toward Harry. “Harry, why could I tell the Malfoys, but not Ginny?”

Harry grimaced. He’d known that he was taking a risk adding the Malfoys as an exception so he could talk to them about the case, but he’d never dreamed that _this_ would be the worst thing that could happen by not casting it on them directly. The temptation to lie was strong, but Ginny wasn’t going to let this go, no matter what he did. His feet felt like lead as he started to move.

I N C L U D E D T H E M W H E N ROBARDS A N D I C A S T T H E C H A R M

“But they weren’t there when the charm was cast.” The sly gleam in Hermione’s eyes told him she hadn’t missed the flaw in the plan, either. “That means they _can_ talk about it… right?”

Harry took his time answering—it was the only way to convey his disapproval.

YES

Ginny turned her scowl—and her wand—on Malfoy. “Talk.”

Malfoy lifted one eyebrow and smirked. “I’m not sure I like the way you’ve asked. Perhaps if you—” He stopped and pulled his Galleon from his pocket.

_Stop being a prat and tell her._

With a smirk, Malfoy dropped into a deep, formal bow. “Your wish is my command, Oh Mighty Chosen One.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Harry responded, _Remember your promise_ —the last thing he needed was Malfoy blurting out the contingency plan—then turned his attention to Ginny.

He felt every emotion that played across her face: shock, anger, heartbreak. Malfoy gave the barest of details—that Harry and Scott had been hit with Dolohov’s curse, how Hermione had worked out the means of communication, how he and his mother had become involved, and that they hadn’t been able to find a counter-curse—but Ginny seemed to understand the long-term implications, and her anguished expression filled Harry with helpless frustration.

After the scene at St. Mungo’s and the failure of the first ritual attempt, he’d not gone to see her again; when the second attempt ended in such disaster, he’d resolved to stay away and, hopefully, make what he would eventually have to do a bit easier. But now, he ached to hold her, to reassure her, to make promises he’d never be able to keep.

“Harry?” Ginny’s voice broke on the word. “I—”

“Here,” Malfoy interrupted, holding his Galleon out to her. “Use this. It’ll be easier for him to answer.”

Taking the coin, she raised shocked eyes to Malfoy and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he was headed out the door. She gaped after him until Hermione stood.

“I’ll give you a few minutes alone,” she said and hugged Ginny hard before scurrying after Malfoy.

Grateful that he didn’t have to try to talk past the knot in his throat, Harry tapped his coin. At least now he could be sure to say it before it was too late: _I love you._

Ginny started crying in earnest. Startled by her open distress, Harry jumped to comfort her, then stomped and swore viciously when his arm passed through her shoulders. He sank to his knees in front of her, forcing back the tightness in his throat. He was glad she didn’t feel the need to keep up her bravado in front of him, but he would give anything if he could keep her from feeling the pain in the first place. His own eyes blurred. This was just too hard. Why did she have to come nosing around? 

“I love you, too,” she finally choked out. “Are you okay?”

Harry closed his eyes and tried to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie, either.

_I’m fine. I didn’t want you to know._

She gasped and glared at the coin. “That’s reallybwhy Hermione didn’t tell me, isn’t it? You made her promise, didn’t you?”

_Yes. Don’t be angry with her._

“But why? Why wouldn’t you want me to know?” Her breath hitched and another tear trailed down her cheek.

_That’s why. Too hard for you._

Her head snapped up. “Don’t you _dare_ try to make decisions about what I can and can’t handle. I get enough of that from my family, I don’t need it from you, too.”

 _There_ was that blazing look he loved. Harry knew she didn’t need protecting, but the need to try was beyond his control. He burned with a fierce longing to kiss her senseless. Well, actually, to do more than kiss her… much more. His mind raced with desire, even if his body couldn’t respond. _Fucking Dolohov!_ Right now Harry wanted to cut off something much more appropriate than the bastard’s head. But he squashed his anger; Ginny was waiting for an answer.

_Didn’t want to hurt you again._

_Guess I can’t win either way._

She gave a soggy snort. “I know you meant well, but I’d rather know the truth.”

They sat in silence for several long moments as Ginny slowly curled in on herself. Her rough whisper finally broke the peace, stabbing at Harry’s heart. “Hermione… she’s going to fix this… isn’t she?” As she spoke, she stared at the coin, turning it over and over as if she might find the right answer on the other side.

Harry dropped his head into his hands. He needed to tell her where this might lead. She’d just said she wanted the truth, but she looked so vulnerable, he couldn’t make himself form the words. He finally settled for _She’s researching it._

Ginny straightened and looked over his head toward the letter board, as if she could really see him there. The blazing look made another appearance, but this time it sent a jolt of dread through him.

“I want to help.” Harry frantically tapped his coin— _NO!_ —but she ignored it. “I’m going to take a leave of absence from the team. I’m useless to them right now, anyway. If Malfoy can help with research, then I can, too.”

Harry tried to jump in front of her as she covered the distance to the door, then stomped in impotent fury as she walked right through him and stuck her head out to call Hermione. With her here, how was he ever going to be able to do what was looking more likely by the day? In the end, it would just be harder on both of them.

***

Ginny had expected at least token resistance when she announced that she was staying to help, but Hermione seemed more than happy about the idea—almost too eager, in fact. And when Ron came in later, he accepted her presence with sad resignation, then sent an owl to let the rest of the family know where she was.

But Malfoy and, surprisingly, Harry were a completely different story.

Malfoy’s opposition Ginny could understand—he was a prick, after all, and was probably working to sabotage the rescue anyway; she still wasn’t completely sure why he was even here. But Harry? She could think of only one reason _he_ wouldn’t want her around: He was planning to do something she wouldn’t like, no matter what promises he’d made that last night they were together. She might not be able to see or hear him, but he was damn sure going to have to answer for any stupid decisions. Now that she’d found him again, she wasn’t about to let him out of her si… erm, presence, if she could help it.

Of course, Ginny knew being here could also cause problems; almost immediately, Hermione had handed over Harry’s Invisibility Cloak with a quiet warning to “disappear” if anyone besides a Weasley or a Malfoy came in. Taking the caution to heart, Ginny kept the Cloak close at hand and stuck to the shadows in the room—a sound decision with the Head Auror popping in at random times nearly every day to check on their progress.

But she also decided to take no chances that someone might decide to block her return if she left. With a sheaf of parchment transfigured into a lumpy mattress, food brought in by Harry’s house-elf (and why was Malfoy’s mother ordering him about?), and freshening charms in the loo, Ginny made herself right at home.

Her first research assignment had been an eye-opener.

“Here,” Hermione had said, shoving a huge stack of parchment at her. “The Secrecy Charm should allow you to read these since you’re in this room. Let Malfoy know if you have any questions.”

“These” happened to be all of their notes on Dolohov’s curse, and they held Ginny’s rapt attention for nearly a day. Malfoy’s terse recounting of events hadn’t even scratched the surface of the horrors Harry and Scott were enduring. And it would all be so much worse if they hadn’t been wearing those tracking amulets. Scott’s inability to heal was the most terrifying, though, making Ginny’s heart ache for both him and Val. What would’ve happened to him if Harry hadn’t been there to cast the charms to keep him from suffering? Ginny was grateful that Hermione hadn’t told them the whole story that day at the pitch—it would’ve sent Val over the edge. 

Reluctantly, Ginny had to admit that she could see the reasons why some secrets really needed to be kept. She didn’t like the idea of not knowing everything Harry was up to, but she was beginning to understand that he wasn’t hiding things to hurt her… and that knowing _every_ thing would probably hurt more than help. It was something they were going to have to discuss—and probably work on… a lot—when this was all over.

The rest of the week had passed like treacle in winter. Ginny had expected the work to be dull, but leafing through ancient books, looking for anything that _might_ be related to a curse they couldn’t even define all seemed rather pointless. Not that she had any better ideas. Even if she wasn’t stupid—her NEWT scores were well above average—next to Hermione, who of course was brilliant, and Malfoy, who was a close second (much as she hated to admit it), Ginny felt like a dolt. Even Mrs. Malfoy seemed to understand the magical theory better than Ginny ever would. Ginny started thinking she’d be helping more if she just kept the room tidy and stayed out of their way.

By Friday, after listening to Malfoy and Hermione’s incessant arguments about the merits and faults of various spells and rituals, Ginny itched to ask a million questions about the Malfoys, the curse, and more importantly, how Harry was _really_ doing. Not that they—or anyone here—could ever have a private conversation. Even with the Secrecy Charm relaxing more the longer Ginny was involved, the fact that Harry could listen undetected to any conversation, anywhere, regardless of wards, meant that getting any real answers was out of the question.

And, of course, Harry wouldn’t give her any straight answers, either. He just hinted at things that made her gut churn endlessly. Like tonight. After everyone else had gone home, his first question made her heart clench.

_What if the ritual doesn’t work?_

Huddled on her makeshift bed in the darkest corner, wrapped in her cloak and Warming and Disillusionment charms (in case anyone came in while she was asleep), she glared at Harry’s question on the coin even as she tried to school her face—no telling what stupid idea he might get in his head if he thought she was upset.

“It’s going to be all right, Harry. We’ve worked out the problems. It won’t be like last time.”

According to Hermione’s notes, the first attempt at the ritual had been practically useless, except to guide their hypothesis about the proper way to proceed… or so they’d thought. The second attempt had nearly been disastrous—the dry narrative of the notes had downplayed the sequence of events, but Malfoy had dropped enough hints for Ginny to piece things together. Apparently, whatever they’d done had blown Hermione, Ron, and Malfoy across the room, left Harry unconscious for several hours, and nearly killed Scott. But at least the Resurrection Stone—the key to the whole ritual—hadn’t been damaged, so they could try again. Tomorrow.

The coin warmed again, bringing Ginny from her musings.

_But what if it doesn’t work?_

“Then we’ll try something else.”

_And if that doesn’t work?_

Exasperated, Ginny huffed. “We’ll keep trying until we find something that does.”

_Can’t keep trying forever._

“Why not?”

_You need to move on._

_Hermione and Ron, too._

Ginny stared at the words as frozen fingers closed around her heart. “No,” she breathed. “No, I can’t. I won’t. We’ll find a way out of this, Harry. I won’t give up. And you’d better not, either. You promised. You said you’d never again go down without a fight.”

The coin grew cold in her palm, and she began to wonder if he’d left. “Harry?” She had half pushed herself up to go and check the map when the Galleon finally heated against her skin.

_I remember._

She waited several moments, certain he wasn’t finished and dreading what was to come.

_But we might have to give up one day._

Ginny shook her head, unable to speak over the fear choking her.

_When the time comes, don’t feel guilty._

_I want you to keep living… to move on._

“Why do you keep saying that?” She was angry now, in spite of the tears pressing at her eyes. “I don’t _want_ to move on without you! We’re going to fix this. We’re going to bring you both back, and I don’t want you to say another word otherwise ever again, do you understand me?”

The coin cooled in her hand, igniting her worries again before it warmed back to life.

_You should rest._

Panic surged in Ginny’s chest. “Where are you going? What are you going to do?” A long moment passed with no response. “Harry, please. Please don’t leave. Promise you’ll stay with me.”

The coin seemed to take on an unnatural chill. Ginny watched it, willing him to give the right answer.

_I promise I’ll stay with you tonight._

Tonight. The message was clear. But before she could form an answer, his next message appeared.

_Right now, I want to lie beside you and pretend._

Ginny let out a shuddering breath. She didn’t really want to let this go, but allowing him to think he’d won for the moment would keep him here more effectively than arguing about whatever ridiculous notion he’d got in his head. He’d said he would stay, and for now she trusted him. Besides, this game they played most nights was inexplicably comforting, even if it left her yearning for him.

“Pretend what?”

_That I’m kissing you. Can you feel it?_

Ginny closed her eyes and, in her mind, wrapped her arms around him. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I can feel it.”

The coin in her hand warmed, and she opened her eyes, shattering the illusion, but it was worth it for his response.

_Think about the last time we made love._

_That’s what I’m pretending._

“Mmmm…” Ginny closed her eyes again and angled her head as if Harry were running his lips down her throat… warm, open-mouth kisses that teased her with promise. “Yesssss…”

The coin heated again and she peeked at it beneath her lashes.

_Love you._

“Love you, too.”

That was their signal—until she fell asleep, he would renew that one phrase so she wouldn’t have to try to read it in the dark, and the coin would stay warm so she could feel his presence. He’d signed off much earlier (and with much less suggestive banter) than usual, but that wasn’t surprising given their conversation. Unsettled and anxious, she couldn’t relax into the fantasy or let herself surrender to sleep. Several times, she jerked awake, whispering his name until she felt the answering heat in her palm. Eventually, though, the pull became too strong, and she drifted into a restless slumber filled with vague dreams of searching and searching, but never finding him.

She wasn’t quite sure what pulled her back to consciousness, but she lay still, fingers curled into the Invisibility Cloak, body tensed to slip under it if someone had come in who might try to throw her out. Peeking beneath her lashes, she listened closely for a clue to what had wakened her.

“That wasn’t part of the original deal. I’m not doing it!” The loud whisper was harsh, and clearly Malfoy’s.

The message Harry put on the wall glowed in the dim light.

Q U I E T Y O U L L W A K E H E R

Malfoy dropped his voice too low for Ginny to hear, so she pulled on the Cloak and crept closer to listen. She missed Harry’s reply when Malfoy wiped the letters away too quickly for her to sort them.

“You promised,” Malfoy spat, his face etched with fury. He paced with sharp steps, flinging his hands around as if he were looking for something to punch.

S H E L L N E V E R G I V E U P

“That’s not my problem. We have a deal. I’ve kept my end of it, now you keep yours.”

A deal? Why would Harry make a deal with Malfoy, and what did it matter if Ginny would never give up?

T O O H A R D O N H E R

“Do I look like I care? No matter what I may have fooled you into thinking, I’m not a nice person.”

G A V E GINNY T H E C O I N

Malfoy slashed his hand dismissively. “A momentary lapse. Doesn’t mean anything.” He cast a glare in the general direction of Ginny’s bed. She tensed, but the deep shadows on that side of the room must’ve hidden the fact that she’d moved, and he turned back toward Harry. “I want it back.”

Ginny snorted softly. _In your dreams, you prick._

“The point is, _you_ made this bargain with the devil” —Malfoy pounded his chest— “now you’ve got to live with it.”

T A K I N G T O O L O N G

“Too bad. You agreed. Remember, I don’t have anything to lose in this deal. If you back out, I won’t hesitate for one second to—”

The Floo flared, and Malfoy waved his wand to erase Harry’s message, cutting off the argument. Ginny bit back a growl of frustration. How was she going to find out what Malfoy was holding over Harry’s head?

Hermione stepped from the fireplace looking pale and drawn, her eyes bloodshot and bruised with blue-purple shadows, like she hadn’t slept in a month—or five weeks, actually. Ron, looking equally frayed, came through and kissed her goodbye, but paused at the door with a worried scowl to watch her for a moment as she flared the torches and yawned “good morning” at Malfoy.

Watching Ron go, the truth hit Ginny like a Bludger to the gut. This—watching his friends give up their lives and health for him… _again_ —would be eating away at Harry, and not being able to _do_ anything about it would be driving him around the twist. That worried her more than whatever deal he’d struck with Malfoy. Harry didn’t wait well, and compounding that with worry about his loved ones meant he was much more likely to take matters into his own hands. She couldn’t bear to imagine what plan he might come up with.

So instead, Ginny considered all angles of the conversation she’d overheard. Harry obviously didn’t want Malfoy to do something, but how that fit with her unwillingness to give up made no sense. She’d wager that whatever it was had everything to do with why Malfoy kept throwing up obstacles whenever Hermione declared them ready to try the ritual again—like he was purposely dragging it out, in spite of Harry’s wish to get on with it. Malfoy was holding something over Harry’s head, and Ginny was determined to find out what it was and put an end to it. 

Decision made, she sneaked into the loo and quietly closed the door behind her. No more lazing about. She had work to do, and Draco bloody Malfoy had better watch out.

***

Harry did a double-take when Hermione stepped from the Floo. Merlin, she looked terrible—like she’d aged ten years overnight. He swallowed hard to keep his despair in check. This was killing his best friend. Well, all of them, really. Ron and Ginny looked almost as bad, and the Malfoys even had tiny cracks in their usually perfect façades. The constant stress and lack of progress were taking their toll, pushing bodies and emotions to the breaking point.

Harry jammed his hand into his hair and pulled. If he had the tiniest hope that they could really find a counter to this fucking curse, he might be willing to let them keep going, but he was more convinced than ever that, if the ritual didn’t work this time, he had to call a halt to this madness.

“We’ve a lot to do by this evening,” Hermione said briskly, visibly trying to shake off her fatigue as she handed Malfoy a sheaf of parchment. “I’ve reworked the arithmantic formulas to be sure we position the runes properly, but I need you to double check to be sure the calculations are correct. We’ve got to have everything ready by the time Ron gets back from his field training this evening.”

“Granger, we’ve already done these six times!” Malfoy squawked. “The ones we finished yesterday were fine. I can’t check them all again in time to do the ritual _tonight_. We have to put it off until tomorrow, or maybe even the next day. In fact, we should probably wait another week if you’re so damned concerned with accuracy.”

Harry stomped on the letters. D O I T N O W M A L F O Y

Malfoy opened his mouth to argue, but just then Narcissa stepped through the Floo and Ginny came out of the bathroom. Ignoring Malfoy, Hermione handed them each their own stack of parchment.

“These are copies of the ritual. Can you both, please, check the language of the incantation for alternate interpretations to be sure we’re using exactly the right phraseology? I’ve gone over it several times, but I thought fresh eyes might catch something I’ve missed.”

“Merlin, help us!” Malfoy sneered. “The mighty Granger might have _missed_ something? However will we manage to succeed in our impossible quest?”

“Draco!” Narcissa scolded as Ginny snarled, “Stuff it, Malfoy!”

Hermione put a shaky hand to her eyes and sighed as if it was an effort to drag the breath from her lungs. Her voice held a weariness that Harry hadn’t heard since their year on the run. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s just get started. Please.”

Scowling, but cowed by the stern look from his mother, Malfoy flopped into his chair with a huff. Ginny gave Hermione a worried look and sat down across from him. Narcissa and Hermione took seats at either end of the table. With nervous energy thrumming in his veins, Harry began pacing the perimeter of the room. The tense silence was broken only by Malfoy’s periodic stream of grumbling under his breath until, after about half an hour, he raised his head and glared at Ginny.

“I want my Galleon back.”

Harry jerked to a halt. “Oh, Malfoy, please don’t.” Of course, no one could hear him.

Ginny sent a carefully blank look across the table. “No.” She bent back over her work.

Malfoy stood and leaned over the table. “It’s mine. Potter gave it to me more than three years ago. I loaned it to you out of the goodness of my heart, and now I want it back.” Narcissa put a restraining hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

Ginny stood to face him, hand in her pocket, no doubt gripping the coin. “You have a heart? Now, there’s a laugh! But I don’t recall anything about a loan, and I’m not giving it back.”

Hermione’s face was the picture of consternation, and Harry cursed his inability to come to her rescue. She was already hanging by a thread; this was the last thing she needed. He frantically tapped his coin to get Ginny’s attention.

_Let him have it. I need to talk to him anyway._

Ginny glanced down at the coin in her hand. “No, Harry. Use the letter board. Anything he needs to say to you, he can say for everyone to hear.”

Malfoy made a swipe for the coin. “Give it here, you stupid bint.”

“ _Draco!_ ” Narcissa said, outraged.

Hermione nearly sobbed, “Please, stop!”

Malfoy ignored them both.

Ginny backed away from the table, snatching her fist to her chest. “Why do you want it? I heard you this morning, you know. What are you holding over Harry’s head? What are you trying to hide?”

Malfoy responded with more insults, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore. She’d heard them this morning. _Bollocks!_ Running the conversation through his mind—a couple of times, for good measure—he took cold comfort that they hadn’t said anything specific, but she’d evidently heard enough to be suspicious.

And now, she and Malfoy had wands drawn and were screaming at each other, while Hermione and Narcissa risked injury trying to intervene. Harry leaped onto the letters—S T O P—but no one paid him any mind. In helpless horror, he watched the hexes start flying. But even desperate as he was to stop the duel, he was reluctantly impressed that Ginny held her own quite well, and he let loose a tiny triumphant laugh when her Bat Bogey Hex, slipping just past the magical shield Narcissa conjured between them, hit Malfoy square in the nose.

But Harry sobered quickly. He couldn’t bear watching them tear each other apart because of him—and he had a feeling this explosion was only a hint of things to come if they didn’t have a breakthrough soon.

After Hermione disarmed her, Ginny glared daggers through the shimmering barrier. Once Narcissa had banished all the Bat Bogeys, Malfoy glared back, spouting insults that drew similar threats from Ginny until Hermione slapped them both with Silencing spells.

“Enough!” Hermione’s voice quivered with rage and exhaustion. “If the two of you can’t get along, you can leave!” She slashed a hand through the air at Ginny’s outraged silent protest. “No! We have work to do. We don’t have _time_ for this… this… childishness. If you can’t act like adults, I won’t hesitate to throw you both out and set the wards against you.” Chest heaving, she stared them down until they bowed their heads in shame. “Can you behave?” At their subdued nods, Hermione held her hand out to Ginny. “Give it here.”

Jerking her face up, Ginny clutched her fist to her chest and shook her head violently.

Hermione grimaced. “Fine, if you want to keep it, you can go.”

Ginny’s eyes went huge, her lips forming a silent _no, please, no_ over and over again.

Hermione thrust her hand out farther. “Then give it here. You can use it at night, but I’ll keep it during the day—if Harry wants to have a private conversation with someone, he can let me know, and I’ll let them use it until he’s done.”

Harry breathed out a small sigh of relief when Ginny reluctantly handed over the coin—Hermione’s wisdom never ceased to amaze him. But then Hermione whirled to look in the direction of the letter board, where he just happened to still be standing.

“That goes for you, too, Harry. Anyone in this room should be able to hold a private conversation without you listening in.” She turned and waved her wand toward the far corner of the room encompassing Ginny’s bed, marking off a barely-visible transparent red “wall” that rose from floor to ceiling. “Conversations in that area are meant to be private. Since, the privacy ward won’t keep you out, I want your word, Harry, that you won’t listen in unless you’re invited.”

Well, that hurt. As if he’d spy on his friends like that!

“Your word, Harry. Do I have it?”

Harry growled, but stepped over to the YES.

“Good.” Hermione pocketed the coin and lifted the Silencing spells from Ginny and Malfoy before putting her wand away. “Hopefully, after this evening, none of this will even be necessary, but for now can we _please_ get back to work?”

“Can I talk to you a minute, first?” Ginny asked, already pulling Hermione over to the designated conversation area.

Ah! Now Harry could see why Hermione had insisted on his promise. He watched them across the room, itching to go and listen—with Ginny casting repeated glances in his direction and at Malfoy, he had no doubt what they were talking about. And from the look on her face, Hermione was telling Ginny things he’d really rather she didn’t know.

To distract himself, he wandered over to the table where Narcissa was scolding Malfoy like a five year old. Harry cringed, thinking that by listening in he’d once again made Hermione’s point, but he couldn’t make himself walk away after he heard what Narcissa was saying.

“Draco, we can _not_ afford to offend these people! Too much is at stake.” Harry made a mental note to talk to Hermione—they didn’t need to feel like their welfare hung on perfect behavior. But Narcissa went on, “And, besides, your actions are quite unbecoming a Malfoy. Your father would—”

“Well, my father’s not here, is he? Because his actions did more to sully our precious name than anything I could dream of doing, short of putting an end to that harpy—pun intended.” His rant at an end, Malfoy seemed to notice his mother’s hurt expression and flushed in remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel. But I can’t stomach that bitch’s self-righteous blather. She acts like she’s protecting him when it’s actually _me_ protecting _her_.”

Harry held his breath—surely Malfoy wasn’t going to say anything, was he?

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy ran a weary hand over his face. “Nothing, Mother. I’m just tired and angry. We really need to end this thing today before I do something I shouldn’t.”

Narcissa studied her son curiously for a moment, but didn’t press the matter, and Harry slowly released the breath he’d been holding. He wasn’t completely convinced that Malfoy would keep his word, but the git had one thing right: This thing had to end _today_.

***

“He’s hiding something.” Ginny had barely crossed the privacy shield before she started unloading on Hermione. “I heard him this morning. He was threatening Harry.”

Hermione slouched against the wall as if her legs might not hold her much longer, and Ginny felt a twinge of guilt at burdening her friend further, but this was important. She couldn’t let Malfoy get away with it.

Hermione laid her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “Harry trusts him, Ginny.”

“ _Why_? That makes no sense at all. Why would he trust that prick?”

When Hermione’s eyes opened, they held a certainty that Ginny didn’t dare dispute. “He’s been Harry’s spy since the beginning of this investigation.”

The words sluiced down Ginny’s spine like ice water. Malfoy must’ve been the one Harry had been meeting that first night he’d disappeared. And it hurt to think Harry would tell Hermione—and probably Ron—but not tell _her_ who he’d been going to see.

Hermione seemed to read Ginny’s mind. “He never told us, you know. I don’t think he’s ever told anyone, not even Scott. We worked it out only a couple of months ago.”

Ginny shook off her wounded feelings and gave Hermione a stubborn look. “I don’t care about whatever they’ve done in the past. _Now_ , they’ve made some sort of deal, and Malfoy is threatening to back out of it. I don’t know what he’s holding over Harry, but it can’t be good.”

Hermione pursed her lips and stared across the room at Malfoy for several long moments, but when she finally looked back at Ginny her gaze was shuttered, as if she didn’t want her thoughts to escape. “Harry trusts Malfoy. I trust Harry. Malfoy and his mother have provided invaluable help with this project, and I refuse to send them away unless I have to. Whatever it is between Malfoy and Harry is just that—between Malfoy and Harry. We can’t be bothered with it until after we break this curse. Are you going to be able to work with him?”

Fuming, Ginny threw a vicious glance in Malfoy’s direction. The centuries-old feud between the Malfoys and the Weasleys had never meant much until she’d been personally targeted. In spite of the progress she’d made with Healer Andrews, Ginny still sometimes woke from nightmares of finding herself covered in blood and feathers with no memory of what she’d done, or crying over Harry when Fawkes didn’t make it in time to save him. The Malfoys were the only people Ginny could ever say she truly hated. Just sitting in the same room with them was agony.

But when she turned back to see the exhausted determination on Hermione’s face, she knew she had to make it work. She’d managed this far, she could see it through.

“I’ll be civil to them. But just keep him away from me.”

Hermione nodded, her shoulders slumping as if a mountain of care had just rolled off of them. “Thanks. I hope by tonight you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Ginny put a hand on Hermione’s arm to stop her moving from the private corner. “Are you okay? Did you sleep last night?”

With a twist of her lips that was meant to be a smile, but didn’t displace the anxiety in her eyes, Hermione sighed. “I rested a little, but my brain won’t really shut down until this is over.”

“Maybe you should lie down for a bit, now,” Ginny said, pointing to her sagging mattress. “You’re going to need to be in top form for the ritual, aren’t you?”

Hermione eyed the bed longingly for a moment, but shook her head. “Maybe later when we’ve got everything ready. I’m fine for now. Thanks, though.”

Not believing her for a minute, Ginny followed her back across the room, determined to push the preparations ahead as quickly as possible. She didn’t understand everything about this ritual, but she was quite certain it would likely be a physical and magical drain on everyone involved, and Hermione was in no shape right now to handle it. Hermione would have a nap soon, if it was the last thing Ginny ever did.

* * *

Harry was relieved when everyone finally got back to work, even though the tension in the room remained as thick as the fog that he watched them through. Meanwhile, time decided Harry wasn’t mad enough already and chose to all but stop. He plodded in mind-numbing circles about the chamber, letting his thoughts wander at will through his problems, but refusing to examine too closely the plan taking shape in the back of his mind—he’d deal with it when he was out of other options.

At mid-afternoon, he paused in his pacing to join Ginny and insist that Hermione lie down for a bit. Past efforts at the ritual had required crippling amounts of magical energy, and at the moment, Hermione looked like she wouldn’t survive a _Lumos_. When Narcissa, and even Draco (much to Ginny’s apparent shock), joined the argument against her, Hermione reluctantly consented to let Narcissa cast a light Consopius Charm so she could actually sleep for a little while but not suffer the groggy after-effects of a Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Harry sat down next to her, as close as he could get to the mattress without pushing a body part through it. With his arms wrapped around his legs, he rested his chin on his knees and watched Ginny across the room, finally allowing his brain to consider the choices ahead.

He wanted the ritual to work. More than anything, he wanted his life back, to be able to talk with his friends, to interact with the world, and most of all, to hold Ginny again. BUT… his hope that they’d be successful was fading fast. He’d listened to the whispered conversations—they were grasping at straws, making educated guesses. They were all putting on a good front, but he could tell that they were just as uncertain as he was about things going any better this time. So, the question was, what should he do about it?

He glanced down at Hermione’s furrowed brow. Her brain, no doubt, was sorting runes and incantations and calculations even in her sleep. She was a wreck, and his heart weighed a ton from watching her push herself to the point of collapse.

He lifted his eyes toward Ginny. She looked pale and weary—not as bad as that ghost on the stairs all those years ago, but he couldn’t say that she wasn’t headed in that direction, and he’d be damned if he’d be the reason for it again.

Although Ron wasn’t here right now, he always looked completely worn out from juggling training and the rescue effort, all made worse by his worry about his wife and sister. And even the Malfoys were dragging, but determined to work off their perceived debts.

Harry sighed and ran his hands into his hair. This situation was taking too great a toll, and he couldn’t let it go on. So, if the ritual didn’t work, his choice was pretty clear.

The idea had taken root after the disastrous last attempt. Stripped of his protective charms, Summers had writhed in agony for hours until Harry had come back to consciousness. That couldn’t happen again. This time, if the ritual didn’t free them, Harry would use the scenario to bring it all to an end. The ritual would be blamed, holding Malfoy to his promise of silence and eliminating the need for the Obliviations they’d argued about this morning. But more importantly, everyone could get on with their lives.

It was the perfect plan. Now Harry just had to make himself carry it out.

***

Ginny prowled nervously in her assigned corner. They wouldn’t let her help with the preparation or the casting, which made sense, much as she hated to admit it. Hermione, Ron, and Malfoy had already been through this twice and knew the drill. But stationed with Narcissa Malfoy behind a protective shield, waiting to transport Scott and anyone else who needed it to St. Mungo’s, Ginny scrutinized their every move. She’d memorized the incantation and paid close attention when Hermione went over the procedure. If anything unexpected happened, Ginny was ready to step in to help.

While Ron leaned the wall behind his designated spot, Malfoy and Hermione placed each of the runes precisely to their calculations. Seeing them work together in somber harmony was unsettling after they way they’d argued for days about the process. The tension in the room was thick enough to spread on toast, but the ritual wasn’t completely to blame for that… Harry was.

Late in the afternoon, just as Ron had come in, Harry had requested a private conference with each of them, even the Malfoys. No one had shared what he’d said to them, but Ginny could guess, if the conversations had gone anything like the one she’d had. Of course, he’d told her he loved her—which he probably didn’t say to the Malfoys—but he’d also reiterated the things he’d said last night: _If anything happens, don’t feel guilty. I’ll rest better knowing you’ll get on with your life._ He seemed to be expecting the worst… and, even more disturbing, he’d accepted it.

Ginny shuddered with dread. _She_ wasn’t going to just sit back and let it happen, and she’d reminded him of his promise not to give up. He hadn’t argued, but he hadn’t really agreed, either—and that scared her more than anything.

Hermione formed the final rune and stood. The Resurrection Stone—and presumably Harry and Scott—sat in the exact center of the circle. Grim-faced, she nodded at Ron and Malfoy. They all moved into position, equidistant around the circle, two runes separating each of them. Wands at their sides, they closed their eyes and drew deep breaths, as if cleansing their minds in preparation. Mrs. Malfoy waved her wand to dim the torches. Ginny stopped breathing altogether.

At some unheard signal, Hermione, Ron, and Malfoy raised their wands toward the center, braced their stances, and began to chant softly in unison. The words were ancient, a language Ginny had never heard, but their sing-song nature was mesmerizing. As the chant grew louder, the Stone rose slowly from the floor to hover overhead and began to spin almost lazily at first, then quickly picked up speed as it settled into position and started to glow. Ginny jumped when golden jets of light shot from the three wands to meet the stone, then arced high into the air and down to the floor to form a glowing dome that almost touched the extended wand tips. The three voices went up another notch, not quite shouting, but taking the tone of a command, as if ordering the Stone to do their bidding. It responded by sending a narrow column of light directly downward… to where Harry and Scott should be.

Narcissa gasped. Ginny suspected that the illuminated shaft hadn’t appeared during the other attempts, but she couldn’t divert her mind from the scene enough to ask. The muscles in Ron’s arm bulged with effort and Malfoy dropped his foot behind him to brace against the force of the magic they were sending upward. Hermione was truly struggling, her arm trembling and her voice quavering as she pushed herself to the limit of her endurance.

The column in the center of the dome flickered, offering a hazy glimpse of a huddled form at its base. With a start, Ginny realized what she’d seen—two bodies, one prone, one kneeling. Harry. She gave a cry and involuntarily started forward, but a cool hand on her arm kept her in place.

“Don’t!” Narcissa whispered. “Let them finish.”

The column flickered again, the huddled mass just a flash of an image that Ginny was more convinced than ever was Harry and Scott. She dug her nails into her palms and sent prayers to all of the gods of the universe.

The next time the image became visible, it held a bit longer, but Hermione had brought her free hand up to support her wand arm, which was shaking harder as the moments went by. Her face was screwed into determined concentration, sweat dripped from her brow, and her voice grew raspy with effort.

The body in the column suddenly came into view again and, as Ginny watched, gradually took on solid form. They’d done it! But wait! The shape was wrong. There was only one person—Scott.

“No!” Ginny cried, just as Hermione’s voice cracked and her wand started to dip. Leaping forward, Ginny grabbed Hermione around the waist and wrapped a hand around the one on the wand to hold it steady, adding her own magic to Hermione’s. “Keep chanting, Hermione. Harry hasn’t come through yet.”

Hermione strained to get the words out, but she kept going. Ginny watched the column, willing Harry to appear. “Harry, come on!” she shouted. “You promised! You promised you wouldn’t give up! _HAR-REEEEE!_ ”

***

Harry watched the preparations for the ritual from the center of the circle. He was truly worried for Hermione. She’d got some rest earlier, but she still looked like death warmed over, and he couldn’t bear the thought that she was going to endanger herself for him. He’d tried to talk her out of this, and at his urging, Ron had tried, too, but she’d ignored them both—just as she always had. Stubborn witch!

As the chant started and the gold dome appeared, Harry took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on Ginny. He’d thought of her in his final moments before facing Voldemort; being able to actually look at her this time felt like an extravagant gift. He just wished she didn’t look so troubled. What he wouldn’t give to see a smile on her face in his final moment, but he knew that was asking too much under the circumstances.

He noticed the look of shock on Narcissa’s face and looked up to see what had surprised her. Oh, well that was new. As the column of light descended upon them, Harry felt the tug of the magic, apparently trying to transport them back to the real world. For a moment, hope blossomed in his chest. They were going to do it! Any minute now, he and Summers would be free to return to their lives. He looked at Ginny, ready to spring into her arms the second he was—

Wait! Something was wrong. Once, twice, he felt the pull, but each time it snapped away, like a string trying to lift a too heavy rock.

He looked at Ginny again. She was watching Hermione. And Hermione looked bad, obviously struggling, supporting her wand arm, forcing her voice to keep going, keeping herself upright by sheer force of will.

The magic jerked around them again. It wasn’t strong enough to carry them both out, but maybe just one of them would have a chance. With a heavy heart, Harry knew what he had to do. Not giving himself time to debate, he rolled out of the column of light. Almost immediately, the fog swallowed Scott, freeing him from their nightmare… and leaving Harry truly alone.

But before despair had a chance to take hold, a jolt of pain worse than any Cruciatus shot through him. He writhed beneath the golden dome, feeling as if his screams and his magic were being sucked from every pore in his body. He was vaguely aware of someone calling his name, but mindless with agony, he couldn’t respond. Some primal instinct told him he needed to get back into the column. He scrabbled along the floor, but the dome had a powerful hold on him and his strength was waning. It was too much. He couldn’t do it.

Then he heard her. Ginny. She was screaming. He had to get to her. With a massive effort, he threw himself toward the light.

Everything went dark.

***

Muted voices floated through the darkness. As awareness gradually returned, Harry sighed, but didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the fog still separating him from the world. The ritual hadn’t worked—not for him, anyway—but it hadn’t been kind enough to kill him, either. Of course that could be remedied, and better sooner rather than later. But at least Summers had got out. If nothing else, that was the silver lining.

Harry lay still, working himself up to searching for his wand and getting things over with, but suddenly something seemed wrong. No, not wrong. Different. He flexed his fingers. Yes, very different. Was that his cloak? He curled his hand around the fold of fabric, and his heart stuttered. No, definitely not his cloak. It felt too light, too smooth… almost like… He cracked open his eyelids and choked out a sob.

A sheet. On a bed. In—he scanned the dimly lit room beneath his lashes—St. Mungo’s, it seemed.

And then he realized his other hand was tucked into something even better—a hand. A small, soft… familiar one. He turned his head slightly to find a mass of red lying on the bed beside his arm. Sucking in another tear-clogged breath, he squeezed the hand, and the red popped up to reveal a hopeful face, beautiful brown eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Harry?”

Realizing all of a sudden how difficult it was to move, he gave up trying to reach for her with his other hand, but his mouth curled into a tiny smile all on its own. He could see her clearly—or as clearly as he could ever see without his glasses—but definitely more clearly than he’d been able to see in weeks. The fog was gone. Joy took his breath as he forced out a strangled, “Gin.”

In a heartbeat, she was on him, her face buried in his neck, sobs wracking her body against his. With excruciating effort, he brought his arms up for a weak embrace, but it was enough. Her heart was beating next to his. Her skin was warm. He could breathe in that glorious flowery scent that made his blood race. He was holding her again. And, if he had his way, he’d never let her go.

But she quickly pulled back, her eyes red-rimmed and blazing. She gulped in a shuddering breath and sniffled thickly. “You were going to do it, weren’t you? You were going to sacrifice yourself again.”

He let his eyes drop shut and tried to swallow, but he couldn’t find a drop of spit anywhere. “Water,” he croaked.

Instantly, she was propping him up and tipping a glass to his lips. He thought he’d never tasted anything so good, or felt anything as wonderful as her arm around his shoulders. But the effort exhausted him, and before he could settle back into the pillows properly, what seemed like a dozen Healers stormed through the door, shooing Ginny out of the way as they cast spells and poured potions down his throat. His last conscious vision was of her standing in a corner, watching the proceedings with a worried frown.

When he woke again, she was asleep in an uncomfortable-looking armchair in that same corner, and Mrs. Weasley was sitting next to the bed, overseeing her magical knitting needles while she read a magazine. Harry winced at his face on the cover. He must’ve made a tiny sound because she noticed he was awake and put it aside.

“How are you feeling, dear?” she asked in a low voice.

Harry thought about it for a moment and had to try twice to get his raspy voice to work. “Better.”

She stood and helped him sit up a bit so he could drink again. “I promised Ginny I’d let her know when you woke up, but the poor thing has been sitting here for days and I really think she’s going to make herself ill if she doesn’t get some rest.”

Finishing his water, Harry nodded. “Let her sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mrs. Weasley settled him back and tucked the blankets around him. “I should say not. You’ve been out of it for three days, and it’ll be at least a week before the Healers will even think of letting you out of here. You gave us all quite a scare, you know.”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, his voice still not cooperating as he’d like. But he had to ask “Scott? Hermione?”

“They’re doing much better,” Mrs. Weasley said with a smile. “Hermione suffered physical and magical exhaustion. The Healers kept her overnight for observation, then sent her home to rest. Ron’s been making sure she doesn’t overdo too quickly, but she’ll probably come by to see you tomorrow. Unfortunately, it was touch and go for a bit with Scott. When he was released from the curse—the second curse—the effects of the first one accelerated and the Healers had a time treating him before it was too late. He’s on the mend, but he’ll be here at least a month more. Val stopped by earlier to thank you for taking care of him.” Mrs. Weasley clicked her tongue. “She’s doing much like Ginny and wearing herself completely out by hovering over his bed. I’m sure both of you boys would rather they take care of themselves so you won’t have to take care of _them_ when you’re all better.”

Harry gave her a tiny smile and nodded—which took much more effort than it should have. “Yeah,” he murmured, closing his eyes for what he thought was just a moment, but must’ve been much longer because when he opened them again, Mrs. Weasley had gone back to reading. “Everyone else?” he asked. His throat felt, and sounded, like he’d swallowed a bucket of gravel.

“Awake again, are you?” She put her magazine down and lifted him for another drink of water. He savored the comfort of a warm body touching him and drew in a deep breath, surprised as always to catch a whiff of the same flowery scent that meant Ginny to his mind, even though he’d never really confuse the two. Mrs. Weasley laid him back again and gave him a smile as she fussed with the pillows and blankets. “Everyone else is fine. They were just a bit tired. Aside from Scott, you’re the one we’re most worried about. Just like Scott’s injuries accelerated, when you got free, your body realized it had been without food and water far too long, and apparently something happened during the ritual that injured your magical core. The Healers were quite concerned when it took you so long to revive after they’d started treatment. But everything will be all right now. You should be back to yourself, physically and magically, in a couple of months.”

Harry fought to keep his eyes open, suddenly realizing he’d never really told this woman what she meant to him. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “For taking care…”

“Oh, pish, child. You don’t have to thank me. You’re one of my own. I’m meant to take care of you. And right now—”

Whatever else she was going to say got put off by a Healer breezing in with a dozen potions and a plethora of spells that Harry never saw the end of as he drifted off to sleep again.

Ginny was staring at him when he next opened his eyes. Her hand was clutched around his as if their interwoven fingers had been spelled together permanently… which suited Harry just fine. She used her free hand to brush the fringe from his forehead and thread her fingers through his hair. He leaned into the caress and smiled.

“Hi.”

She smiled back, relief replacing the concern in her eyes. “Hi, yourself. How do you feel?”

Harry took a moment to assess. His throat was still dry, but not painfully parched like before, and making the simplest movement didn’t seem to take nearly as much effort, although he still felt incredibly weak. He finally gave a small nod. “Better. Much better.”

“Good,” she murmured, then leaned over and pressed her mouth to his. And, oh, was that better than any drink of water he’d ever had? He lifted his head to follow when she pulled away much too quickly, but she just smirked. “There’s more where that came from when you’re better.”

He scowled. “I’ll get better faster with more of that kind of medicine.”

But instead of offering a witty response, her expression turned bleak as she squeezed his hand and ran her fingers through his hair again. “I almost lost you again, didn’t I? You were going to do it again, yeah?”

Harry’s heart skipped several beats. He couldn’t lie to her, but telling her the truth would probably be the end of them. She’d told him before she couldn’t bear the uncertainty and danger. But this time he wasn’t letting her get away. He’d do whatever it took to keep her. He opened his mouth to tell her just that, but she pressed her fingers to his lips.

“No, Harry, let me finish. I know why you did it. I understand, I really do. And I don’t want you making heroic promises about quitting the Aurors or never doing anything like that again. That’s not who you are, and I don’t want you to be someone else. You’re Harry Potter. You’re the man I fell in love with, and I don’t want you to change.”

He longed to jump in and make exactly those promises, but her fingers stayed on his mouth and, from the look in her eyes, he knew she wasn’t finished yet. So, he nodded to show he understood so far and puckered his lips into a kiss beneath her fingers.

She smiled and moved her hand to cup his jaw as she leaned in for another sweet, far-too-short kiss. When she sat back, her eyes held blazing determination, and Harry braced himself for a scolding. What came instead surprised him.

“I don’t want you to change, but we have to work through this _together_ , Harry. That means _talking_ to each other and being honest. And I know you don’t want to, but I think having an objective person to guide us through it—a Healer in couples’ counseling—is the best way to help each other understand what we’re going through.”

Heart racing with the blessed knowledge that she wasn’t going to send him away again, Harry bobbed his head far more vigorously than he should have. But the resulting dizziness didn’t matter. “Yes!” he blurted. “I already told your brothers we were going to do that.” At her skeptical look, he continued, his voice confident, but much weaker than he would’ve liked while trying to convince her. “At the Burrow that Sunday, when we were all in the garden.” He flushed. “I sort of said it to keep them all from beating me to a bloody pulp, but I meant it. I mean… my experience with Mind Healers has been… yeah.” He paused, rifling his groggy brain for the right words. “It’s not something I’ll ever like, but… I’m starting to see the point, and I understand _now_ how important it is for us to work together, even if it takes doing it with a Mind Healer.”

She frowned, but he shook his head to keep her from interrupting. “No, you see, now I _truly_ know what it’s like to have to sit back and wait. It nearly killed me having to watch all of you hurting and putting yourselves in danger for me. I can understand better now what it’s like for you, how much worse it must be not _knowing_ anything, much less not being able to _do_ anything about it.”

Ginny swiped at the tears pooling in her eyes. Harry lifted a shaky hand to guide her head down to his shoulder so he could stroke her hair and soothe his soul with her fragrance. “I love you,” he whispered. “I want to make this work. We’ll do whatever it takes—I _can_ promise you that.”

They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other’s air, feeling one another’s heartbeats. Harry could’ve drifted off, content never to move again, but Ginny mumbled something against his neck, jerking him awake. He couldn’t have heard right.

“What?”

She lifted her head, her nose touching the end of his, the amber flecks in her eyes in perfect focus from this distance. “I said,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and said more firmly, “I want my ring back.”

Elation exploded in Harry’s chest. Almost wishing he could break into song, he croaked, “Kreacher!” When the ancient house-elf appeared, Harry spoke without taking his eyes from Ginny’s. “Please, bring me the Mokeskin pouch in the bottom drawer of my chest at Grimmauld Place.” He barely noticed when the elf returned, placed the bag on the bed, and, with unusual consideration, popped away again without a word.

Harry shifted to disentangle himself and reach into the bag, then drew out the glittering emerald and turned it over so she could see the inscription. She gasped in delight and reached for it, but he shook his head. He was going to do this properly, not like last time when he’d just blurted it out.

Holding her left hand in his, he positioned the ring at the end of her finger and looked into her eyes, then scrambled through his brain to come up with something that might come close to sounding sincere and romantic. “I know that being with me will never be easy and I truly don’t deserve you, but I love you more than… more than life itself. Ginny Weasley, would you make me the luckiest, happiest sod in the universe and marry me?”

Tears streamed down her face, but she looked happier than he’d seen her in years. “Oh, Harry, you deserve far more than I can ever give you, but I don’t care. I’ve waited forever for you and I refuse to wait any longer. Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Harry pushed the ring into place and, with a burst of bliss-fueled fire, pulled her close. The scorching kiss lit his every nerve ending, the feel of her lips, her tongue, her body pressed along his, burning away the weeks of terror that he’d never share this oneness with her again. Engulfed in a fog of sensory overload, his mind drifted away, leaving him aware only of the play of tongues and soft lips, the heady scent that was his drug of choice, and… finally… _finally_!... the one part of him that had felt most lifeless springing to attention. 

Vaguely aware of the door opening and voices that immediately fell silent, Harry ignored them—even when he recognized the respective sob and chuckle of his future mother- and father-in-law and the amused murmur of his Healer. They could just bugger off. His time with Ginny was too important. They might have legions of demons still to battle, multitudes of mad reporters to fight off, and loads of family and friends to convince, but Harry was determined that nothing was ever, _ever_ going to separate them again.


	62. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny watches her family and decides the hard work was worth it.

**Eight Years Later...**

Ginny heard the whoosh of the Floo in the sitting room, and the tension slipped from her shoulders like a cloak dropping to the floor. She was never really aware of the worry in the back of her mind, building steadily through the day, until that sound whisked it all away.

Smiling at the cacophony of childish voices echoing down the hall, she turned her attention to the tiny ball of energy bouncing in her chair and banging on the table to a litany of “Da! Da! Da! Da!”

“Just a minute, silly girl. Let me get you cleaned up.”

But at ten months old, Lily didn’t care if she had applesauce from head to toe. She just knew that her daddy was home and her brothers were going to get to him first. Barely managing a damp rag for the sticky face and fingers and a quick _Scourgify_ for the soggy shirt—the hair would just have to wait until bath time—Ginny set the squirming baby on the floor, then followed quickly to keep up. On hands and knees, Lily could move faster than a new Snitch, and she didn’t slow down a bit when she reached the pile of small boys and Auror wrestling in the middle of the rug. With a squeal, she threw herself right into the middle of the fray.

Ginny leaned against the door frame, watching indulgently as Harry let the children romp all over him, taking care that no one got hurt and making sure that everyone got a fair share of attention. He never looked happier than when he was playing with his children.

As always when she savored this sight, Ginny’s heart swelled with love for her husband. Yes, she still struggled when she knew he would likely be facing danger, but she now had three little people who needed her to be strong, and Harry finally understood how his choices affected the people who loved him. They’d worked hard to come this far. Years of couple’s counseling had taught them how to be open about their fears and dreams and how to face the hard times together.

Even so, life hadn’t been perfect.

Mum had taken forever to forgive them for eloping, and Ginny had bitten her tongue every Sunday for more than a year because of the way her family had seemed to be waiting for everything to fall apart. Harry had also confessed that he hadn’t felt like a true part of the family until George had finally come round after James was born. Their family issues were only aggravated by worries over the work-related injuries both of them sustained in the early years—playing Quidditch could be just as dangerous as being an Auror—and of course, the press had been insatiable from day one.

But eventually, Harry had started spending almost as much time teaching training classes as chasing Dark Wizards, and Ginny had no regrets about giving up Quidditch to start their family. They still battled daily with persistent reporters; some refused to heed the warnings against messing with Harry Potter’s wife and children and frequently found themselves in St. Mungo’s nursing untraceable hexes. But all in all, life for the Potter family was good and getting better. With his latest promotion, Harry would be in the field even less and Ginny could (maybe) relax a bit more.

Harry grunted in pain—no doubt from bony little elbows and knees poking into sensitive places—and she smiled at his upside-down beseeching look.

“Help?” he croaked.

She smirked. “You’re asking _me_ for help? What would the Minister say about his big, bad, new Head Auror being brought down by a four-year-old, a three-year-old, and a baby?”

“Oh, he’d understand completely,” Harry said with solemn conviction. “These are the scariest wizards and witch in the world!” With fingers wiggling toward ticklish little ribs, he sent James and Al shrieking out of reach, then tossed Lily into the air and pulled her down to blow a raspberry on her stomach, making her squeal with glee. “See?” He sent a pleading look back up at Ginny as he set Lily on his shin, holding her with one hand while he bounced her and sent the boys cackling away with his other hand. “They’re terrifying. I’ll never get away if you don’t save me.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, but played along with a grin, walking around to stand at his unoccupied hip and holding out her hand. “Come on, you pitiful thing. I’ll rescue you.”

In one fluid movement, Harry shifted Lily safely to the floor, sent the boys running again, grabbed Ginny’s hand and pulled her on top of him, then rolled them both over so his body shielded hers from the resulting onslaught of children. Braced on his elbows above her, he grinned. “My hero.”

She couldn’t help giggling. “You prat! Now we’re both trapped.”

“Mmmm,” he murmured dropping his lips to trail along her jaw. “Guess we’ll have to make the best of it.” Her reply was lost when he covered her mouth with his, ignoring the protests of their neglected brood. Ginny arched into the kiss, opening to him and inviting his tongue in to play. She suddenly wished it was bedtime for the mini-marauders—she’d like her own chance to attack their daddy.

But children were more persistent than reporters, and Harry finally came up for air to stave off the whinging pleas for attention. Ginny put a hand on his cheek to keep him in place for a moment, letting her desire show in her eyes. “Later, yeah?”

His pupils swelled to nearly swallow the green irises, and he rubbed against her in a very improper way, given the children on his back. “Definitely,” he growled, then rose to his hands and knees, careful not to displace any of his “riders,” and crawled off down the hall.

Ginny rolled to her side to watch them go, anxious about Lily’s precarious hold on Harry’s shirt—“Jamie, don’t let her fall!”—but also admiring the “horsie’s” backside. She’d definitely have to check it for injuries later.

_~ Finis ~_


End file.
